


Cooking without a Net

by lildogie



Series: Better Hives and Lawnrings [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bulges and Nooks, Cooking, Domesticity, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Food, Horn Stimulation, Hunting, Inflation, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Pale-Red Vacillation, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Quadrant Merging, Size Difference, Switching, Xeno
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-20 17:32:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 47,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1519244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lildogie/pseuds/lildogie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karkat tries to put his hive in order without letting any of its residents be eaten by the local landscape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follows [We're Gonna Need a Bigger Hive](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1081278).

You wake up warm and content, half buried in the cushion pile in Gamzee's respiteblock, wrapped in a soft, newly sterilized snuggleplane.  Your whole body feels well-rested and healthy.  You stretch your legs and curl your back, pulling in your outstretched arms and hugging what turns out to be a seat cushion from the rumpusblock couch.

 

You relax out of your stretch as some of your satisfaction with the world fades.  You catch yourself digging your claws into the cushion and carefully unhook them.  Gamzee, a quick look around confirms, is not in the block, or in the adjoining ablutionblock.  You hold your breath and listen carefully for a moment before letting your head fall heavily on the cushion.  Doesn't sound like he's on this floor at all.  You wonder how long he's been up.

 

Gamzee has been sleeping without the help of sopor for sweeps.  After the mistake of getting used to a recuperacoon again on this planet, _you_ began half-heartedly weaning yourself out of it late in that first sweep.  You spent more and more days sleeping in Gamzee's pile as time went on, but you still haven't adjusted as well as he has.  The result is that he always wakes sooner and better rested than you, which adds extra aggravation to the phlegm salad that is a morning after natural sleep.  Not the fact that he's rested— _that,_ you're happy about—but you'd rather be first up and last down.  It bothers you that he's alone in the evenings, that you're not monitoring him.

 

It's also less fun being grumpy by yourself.  You struggle with your urge to go back to sleep and finally roll yourself down the pile.  The cold floor makes you hiss, and you skitter over it to the ablutionblock as quickly as possible, reluctantly shedding your snuggleplane at the door.

 

There's no sign of your moirail when you emerge with clean face and fangs, and despite the noise you make stomping down to the second floor, getting dressed also fails to produce him.  You loiter in your respiteblock for a minute, toying absently with the corner of a movie poster John pressed on you on your last wriggling day.  You're sulking, you realize, and sweep out into the hallway on a wave of disgust.

 

Gamzee has been spoiling you rotten for the past several nights.  Every evening since the two of you decided to merge your quadrants—did that make it a hemisphere?  The red hemisphere?—he's greeted you with breakfast, or cuddles followed by breakfast...  He's been ridiculously solicitous, so much that you should have stopped him— _would_ have, if you weren't not-so-subtly reveling in his attentions.

 

You let him carry you around the whole first night and most of the second, even though you weren't that sore after a second day's sleep.  You let him cook everything you like to eat and even feed some of it to you—although you _did_ make sure he ate plenty, himself.  You've let him bathe you each morning since... because you got lost in how he looked at you, in the earnest concentration he devoted to washing each limb, in the exaggerated care he took with you, in the way his eyes brightened when you emerged from the towel he used to dry your hair.

 

You told him you were fine.  You really did.  But you didn't insist, because it felt so good to be cherished.

 

Consequently, here you are, a grown troll pouting like an asshole because your moirail isn't here to coddle you like a pupa with percussive pneumonia.  You're disgusting.

 

Downstairs is quiet and dark.  The scent of coffee mitigates your disappointment and leads you into the nutritionblock, where you find a pot staying hot in the coffee maker, and a nutrition plateau of grubcakes under a plateau swab.  You collect the coffee and a beverage cylinder, and install yourself at the table.  After a few sips of frowning groggily at the plateau, you peel a grubcake off the stack and stuff most of it in your mouth.

 

It's good.  Very good.  Gamzee would insist you reheat it, but you're working at maybe a third of pan capacity, here, so let's keep it simple.

 

You finish the grubcake and begin gnawing the edge off a second, squinting petulantly at nothing in particular, trying to figure out what's wrong with this scenario.

 

_Hey,_ a voice in the back of your skull pipes up, _hey, stupid._

 

You'd like to hit yourself, sometimes.  Lucky you're too groggy to bother.

 

_Where the hell_ is _he?_

 

Good question.  If he's not in the hive, he's outside.  Out in undeveloped, largely unexplored New Alternia, which is crawling with crazy flora and fauna that had long been extinct on your home planet, most of which, to judge from their behavior, think trolls smell delicious.  (And yes, that applies to the flora, as well.  You don't want to think about that.)

 

You retrieve your communicrab from your sylladex and strap it onto your wrist.

 

"Gamzee," you say.  "Come in, Gamzee."

 

You wait.  You're reaching for the button again when the incoming light blinks on and Gamzee's voice comes through, muffled and breathless.

 

"Heeeey, good evening, brother!"  You hear rustling and squelching in the background.

 

"It's not evening anymore," you snap, like it's his fault your system is sluggish.  "Where are you?" you correct yourself.

 

It's a moment before the light comes on again, and then all you hear for a few seconds is rustling and the thud of footfalls.  Your adrenaline starts to flow.  Finally, "I, uh... 'm not all sortsa certain on that, best friend."  More rustling and crashing.  "Kinda got frosty with the beaten path, y'know?"

 

Alright, you're awake.  You start up from your seat.  "I'm coming to find you."

 

"Nooo, no!  Don't trouble none!  I'm sneakin' up on where I went sideways...  'Least I think so."  A loud crash makes you jump.

 

"Gamzee?"

 

"It's all good!" Gamzee pants.  "Got my gander bulbs on it, now."

 

"I'll come meet you," you say, already moving towards the door.

 

"Best not," he says, in a voice that turns your meal sac over.  His footsteps pound across the connection.  "Gonna need that radio all up an' tight-lipped for a piece, best friend.  Be hollerin' at you direct in two-dee nothin', okay?"

 

You touch the Speak button, then bite your lip and lift your finger.  He said he needed radio silence.  What was he running from?  

 

There's certainly an abundance of choice.  Your new planet isn't laid out like the old one, as far as continents are concerned, so none of your surviving geographical data is any use.  In terms of climate, as far as you can estimate, it resembles Alternia several hundred thousand sweeps ago, with a thicker ozone layer and far larger ice caps, less desert and a lot more forests, jungles, and even swamps; terrain with which few, if any of your team had experience.

 

You and Gamzee built your hive with its back to the sea, because the sound of surf made it easier for him to sleep.  To the other side of your hive is a grassy plain you've made a modest start on cultivating—maybe prudish would be a better word.  Beyond that is a massive expanse of jungle, sporadically interspersed with swampland.  You'd say it wasn't prime real estate, but most of the planet is either inhospitable or openly hostile.   _Your_ Alternia was hard to survive because of the company; _New_ Alternia can cull on its own behalf.  If you manage to bring forth future generations of trolls, at least they won't be soft.

 

You pull up the shutter of the window over the nutritionblock counter.  The coast stretches out in a long, silver band, reaching seaward at either side, hugging the sheltered inlet Gamzee chose.  He wanted the kitchen on this side so he could watch the starlit waves while baking.  You agreed, although you worried those weren't the best memories for him to relive.

 

The windows on the other side of the hive look out on your little garden, with Gamzee's herbs and your few, grudgingly cultivated vegetables (the seeds were gifts from Jade and came with the challenge that you'd be too fumbleclawed to get them to produce—you showed her.  Sort of).  The tall grass beyond sways in the night breeze.  It starts to rain.

 

You reach for your communicrab, then force your hand down to your side.  Then again.

 

The remaining grubcakes are bolted down almost untasted as you pace between the windows, trying to keep your pulse steady as you search for movement in the grass counter to the wind or a spot of black along the distant treeline.  The nutrition plateau loses a wedge of porcelain when you almost hurl it into the sink.  It hardly registers.

 

You make several circuits of the ground floor before, as you turn for the umpteenth time towards the door, you spot a mess of black, gray, and purple emerging from the tall grass into the fenced haven of your lawnring.

 

You sprint to throw the door open.  The rain sheets in, blurs your vision, and keeps you from clearly making out any more of your moirail than colors; there's too much purple, though.

 

He winces when you grab him around the waist and you flinch back, but instead he leans into you, and you hustle into the hive locked together.

 

Gamzee yanks the door shut behind you and falls back against it, dragging you with him as he sinks to the floor.  "What's happening, brother?" he says breathily.

 

You shiver, shake your bangs out of your eyes, and blink to clear your vision.  You twist around under Gamzee's arm to get a look at him.

 

"Jesus fuck!" you sputter.   

 

Your moirail is nearly invisible under a thick coat of silt-gray mud shot through with purple swirls of blood like oil on water.

 

"What—?" you start.

 

"Whoa, there," says Gamzee, his arm around your shoulder tightening.  He wipes a flap of mud and hair from his face, revealing his eyes.  "Brother..."

 

"Where—?"  You reach for him, then pull your hands back.  "How bad—?"   You've got a wound coddling kit in your sylladex.  Should you move him?  "Is anything broken?"  He doesn't seem to be clutching anything...  You don't see blood actively _pumping_ from anywhere, so can you risk moving him to an ablutionblock so you can hose him off and see what you're doing?  What if he's—  "Are you—?"  Your hands waver in the air, unsure where to go.  Your chest hurts.

 

Gamzee captures your hands and presses them between both of his.  "Hey, now, best friend."  The mud is cool and slick on the backs of your hands.  Something warmer trickles over your wrist.

 

You utter a low moan and freeze, too many possibilities skittering across your thinkpan to follow any single one.

 

Gamzee squeezes your hands, his muddy brow furrowing in alarm.  "Shoosh, best friend.  Just... get your relax on.  Ain't nothin' much at all wrong.  Come on, now, brother."  His voice wavers slightly, his bright eyes wide.  He smears silt across your cheek, keeps on stroking you gently as he touches his forehead to yours.  "Breathe, Karkat.  Don't you worry..."

 

You breathe.  Your bloodpusher hurts.  It hurts.  You close your eyes for a second and let Gamzee croon to you until your mind clears.  You swallow.  "Are you okay?" you murmur.

 

"Yeah, best friend."  He chuckles softly.  "Got a few new holes in the thorax—but ain't none of 'em deep!" he adds hastily.

 

"I," you say, and push your forehead back hard against his, "I'm sorry.  I don't know what the fuck is wrong with me.  You're... okay to walk to the ablutionblock?"  Your voice pitches up too high on the last word and you snarl at yourself.

 

"Not one negation to get voiced all against it."

 

"Okay."  You rock back on your heels and rise to your feet without meeting his eyes or releasing his hand.  He gives you his other hand, you lean back, and Gamzee springs up so quickly you stumble, have to use your grip on him so as not to pitch over backwards.  His new height makes him look like he ought to be heavier than he is _._  "Come on, you sentient disaster," you growl.  "Let's get the hall good and filthy."

 

Minutes later, Gamzee stands naked in the first floor ablutionblock, dripping mud and thankfully less blood as you start up the shower.  "Come on," you say as soon as the water turns warm, because he's starting to shiver.  You give him your hand, which he takes but won't lean on as he lowers himself into the ablution trap.  You climb up onto the rim to get the showerhead above his muddy mop and Gamzee reaches out, not touching, but holding his palms up, at the ready, in case you slip.  "Close your eyes," you say.

 

The mud thins and runs.  His skin and the remnants of his face paint emerge.  Streaks of black open in the silt until his hair is relatively free of mud.  Dirt and blood sluice off his body and pool around his feet.

 

"Keep 'em closed," you say.

 

Gamzee blows water off his lips and nods.

 

You inspect him as you move the showerhead, chasing the thicker soil.  The bruises from a few nights ago have faded to pale violet lace under the skin of his shins and arms, but there are new ones, large and bright purple on his right knee and shoulder, and a series of small ones, so dark they're almost black, in a vee across his torso, the wide end on his left.  You squint and lean in.  There's a small, dark puncture wound at the center of each.  Your throat constricts.

 

"Breathe, brother."

 

"I told you to keep your eyes shut."

 

"But—"

 

"No buts.  Turn around."

 

Gamzee's hands flex uncomfortably at his sides.

 

"Go on."

 

"It don't hurt," he says, and turns around.

 

There's a matching set of punctures on his back, forming a smaller spearhead pointing towards his right hip.

 

You try to angle the spray away from them.  You can't quite wrest your eyes away.  They aren't wide, and they aren't bleeding almost at all, but with puncture wounds that's no guarantee they're shallow.

 

"Brother?" Gamzee asks.

 

You blink out of your review of every medical schoolfeed you can remember.

 

"Ain't even close to knife-deep," he offers.

 

You recall the blood pumping through your fingers from Jack's stab hello.  "Fair point."  Nowhere along the vee on either side are they bleeding like that.   _You_ survived.  For that matter, you've seen Gamzee survive exponentially worse.  You lower your eyes and put one foot back on the floor to rinse the scratches down his legs.  That thought doesn't help.

 

"Can you convince me, in ten words or less, that these wounds are shallow?" you ask.

 

"Uh..."

 

"That's one."

 

Gamzee's teeth click shut.  He raises one hand.  "It had small motherfuckin' teeth."

 

Your eye twitches.  So many questions.  "How small?"

 

A short pause.  Gamzee twists a little to show you his hand, which makes the punctures nearest his side ooze blood.  You clench your teeth and focus on his hand.  His index finger is curled into his thumb, leaving an open window maybe half the size of a troll caegar.  "Like that," he says.

 

You frown.  "Is that length or circumference?"

 

He retracts his hand and pauses for a second.  "Both, I thi—aw, shit."

 

"What?"

 

He hums emphatically.

 

"The fuck—?"  You blink.  Then give a forced laugh.  "Word limit revoked, Gamzee."

 

He lets out his breath in a whoosh.  "Good, 'cause I can't talk anywise natural with a tally, and you ain't heard about the cluckbeast yet."

 

"Cluckbeast."  You wince.  "Don't twist, it's making you bleed.  Just turn around.  Here, hold this."  

 

Gamzee takes the showerhead from you and you peel off your damp clothes, climb in next to him, and swipe the dermal detergent from the other rim.

 

"Cluckbeast," he affirms eagerly.  He reaches for the ceiling, rising onto his toes.  "They're like motherfuckin' trunkbeasts here, brother!"  He nods absently as you touch his arm, prompting him to keep it raised with the spray falling over him.  He goes on as you begin to lather his stomach.  "Well, not quite a trunkbeast's worth, but mosta one.  Like this bitchtits cloudmonster all squawkin' and clawing and sprayin' feathers like the craziest pillowfight you ever got at."  He winces.

 

"Sorry," you say, pulling your hand back.  "I just wanna get it clean before I bandage it up."

 

"It's no thing, best friend.  Just a sting."

 

You chew your tongue as you resume, gingerly spreading suds over the bruised flesh.  You prompt him with a "Mmm?"

 

"Well, I wouldn'ta gone pickin' fights with a badass flapbeast like that, but it wasn't hanging around when I found its hive—"

 

"Hive?"

 

"Nah, it was a... branch fort.  You know...  what is it flapbeasts like to get down in?"

 

"A nest?"

 

Gamzee gives you a fangy grin.  "That's the one!"  He blows foam off his chin.  "Had a nest half the size of my block, and best friend, wait'll you see these _eggs!_ "

 

"So that's why it tried to eat you, huh?  Lean down."

 

He ducks to let you soap up his hair.  "Aw, I don't think it wanted to get snackin' on me.  Just chewed me some.  Small teeth for a flapbeast that size, but if Trollcules had a beak, brother..."  He catches your eye and trails off.  "Anyhow, I lost that fluffy motherfucker, and I got more egg than a Mother Grub could get at hatching."  You pull back your hands from his foamy mane and he raises the showerhead to rinse it.  "Can I help an invertebrother get all squeaky clean?"

 

"I'm fine," you say.  A glob of mud chooses that moment to ooze out of your hair and splatter on your shoulder.  "Ugh, I'll do it myself.  You get out and dry off."

 

He reaches over you to replace the showerhead on the wall and steps out—he only has to step, now, graceful as could be, while it's a stage of an obstacle course for you.  You dump detergent on your head, toss the bottle aside, and start scrubbing.

 

"Easy there, best friend.  You ain't sandblasting a statue of the Empress—that's your nugbone."

 

You squint up at him through suds.  "Shut up, and go sit down.  If you bleed on me, I'll cull you."

 

"Just don't be puttin' no new holes in."

 

You attack your scalp with redoubled vigor.  You're soaped down, rinsed off, and trying not to slip out of the trap in less than three minutes.  Gamzee reaches across from the load gaper to steady you.  You slap his hand away, then grab your hand back, staring at him.  He just smiles and passes you a towel.

 

"You, uh, might get to want that epidermis later," he says, as you dry your back.

 

You grunt, finish, and whip the towel around your waist.  Gamzee is slouched forward on the load gaper lid, towel like a shawl around his shoulders, bleeding sedately from the bite of an enormous cluckbeast, which, let's be honest, is the kind of thing that _would_ kill him, if anything could, just for the added cosmic fuck you that would provide whenever you had to cry about it later.

 

You decaptchalogue your wound coddling kit and beckon him forward.  "Hey, Gamzee."

 

"Yeah, brother?"

 

"Why did the cluckbeast cross the road?"

 

He locks those crystalline purple eyes on you, his ears pricking up.  "Why's that?"

 

"To chew on my moirail."

 

The beaming smile he gives you is not what you expected.  Nor is the gale of laughter that follows.  You stand and watch him, your mouth twitching into and out of a bewildered smile, your meal sac trying to tie itself in a knot.  Heat wells behind your eyes and you bite savagely into your lip, take a deep breath, and wrestle yourself under some semblance of control.

 

"I'm glad you think this is funny," you growl, once he quiets enough to let you start in with the antiseptic.  You bite your lip again when he winces, but it needs to be done, damn it.

 

"Naw, but," he chuckles, "you don't much get your imagination firin' on your dinner havin' _you_."

 

You huff.  "I'd find it funnier if it wasn't a Makara sandwich on the menu."

 

Gamzee starts giggling again.  Your lip trembles.   _God,_ what the _hell_ is wrong with you?  Are you _dying?_

 

"Are you imagining yourself with bread?"

 

"And ketchup, too."  He leans forward and kisses your nose.  "That's the shade," he says, as the flush spreads across your cheeks.

 

"Stop fucking moving so I can bandage you."

 

He raises his hands in surrender and leans back, still smiling.  He winces as you cover him in butterfly bandages and bind him up with gauze, but keeps assuring you it's no big deal.

 

"Why were you even out there?" you ask.

 

"Ran outta eggs."

 

"Okay.  What was wrong with the eggs from the cute, _little_ flapbeasts you've been using?"

 

"I pillaged a buncha those, too, but I got on top of a trail of fat gray fungus, like the kind that get flavorful with some herbs over top a sweet slab of beast, and then I near fell into that big old..."

 

"Nest."

 

"Right, and the eggs were—"

 

"Stop moving your arms."

 

"I thought, I gotta get my bake on with these motherfuckers and see how they whip up."

 

"Of course," you sigh.  You drop the gauze back into your kit and captchalogue it.  You pull Gamzee's towel back up around his shoulders and give him an awkward pat on the unbruised shoulder.  "Sit here and don't freeze for a minute while I get your clothes."

 

He catches your hips as you turn to go and something tightens in your gut.  "I ain't gonna break or nothin', best friend."  His soft, low tone resonates in the tile block.

 

You put your hands over his.  "I know," you say, although your nervous system knows nothing of the kind, before gently removing his hands.

 

* * *

 

Gamzee trails into the nutritionblock in your wake, swimming in his tee-shirt, which keeps sliding off one shoulder.  You've only had the chance to modify a couple sets of clothes for him, and one of those is currently soaking in the ablution trap.  You can't decide if the whole routine of him going around not noticing, then finally pulling up the collar, only for it to slip down a moment later, baring that one, smooth shoulder, is arousing or annoying.  Either way, it's getting under your skin.

 

"Force-feeding time," you announce.

 

"I broke my fast before I went out," Gamzee says.  "Murdered a couple a pastries."

 

"There's nothing missing from the hull," you say, scanning it with narrowed eyes.

 

"I, uh..."

 

You pull out the roasted shank of a creature you hunted a couple months ago and have been defrosting and devouring piecemeal ever since.  You have no idea what it was, but it's delicious.  You toss it in the comestible particle accelerator.  There's most of a loaf of Gamzee's fresh-baked bread on the counter, so you take that over to the table with a knife and nutrition plateau.

 

Gamzee hovers behind the chair you pulled out for him, looking vaguely disgruntled.  You wag the handle of the knife at him.  "Eat, or else."

 

Gamzee never asks, "Or else what," which is good, because you've got nothing.  He pouts, but sits and takes the knife from you.  You point imperiously to the loaf and he slowly begins sawing himself a piece.

 

"We've got some of that churned hoofbeast product," you say, turning back to the hull.

 

"Butter?" Gamzee offers.

 

"If you wanna be all fancy about it."

 

You hear the smile in his voice.  "Just got used to it from that wicked human food grimoire.  I got some gettin' soft over there."

 

You have to look for a second before you locate the little glass coffin the churned—fine, butter—is in.  "Was this here before?"  You turn around and lift it up to the light, squinting at it.  "Why's it on display like this?"

 

"Got the code from Jane," he says.  "Lets it stay all warm and mellow, easy to work with."

 

You bring it over and watch how carefully he lifts off the rounded lid.  There's a spark of pleasure in his eyes when the knife sinks easily through the butter.  He replaces the lid with exaggerated care and begins buttering his bread.  

 

He's like a pupa with his newest toys with his cooking paraphernalia.  The only object you can remember being that enchanted with, yourself, is your first sickle.  How someone this enamored of _making_ food can be so hard to shovel food _into_ is a mystery.

 

"There's jam," you recall aloud.  You don't need to ask if he wants any from the way his ears perk up.

 

You sit across from him with the jar and take the knife to slather on as much as the bread will support.  Gamzee watches with something that finally looks like anticipation.  He accepts the slice from you and you watch him take a bite as you cut another.  He smiles with obvious enjoyment.

 

You've got a second piece buttered and jammed on his nutrition plateau when the accelerator dings and you rise to retrieve the creature shank.  The sound of him munching away forms a pleasant backdrop as you carve the meat.  When you turn, Gamzee's working obediently on his second piece of bread, so you lay a thin slice of roast across the empty plateau.  "Start on that next," you say.

 

You glance back at the shank on the counter.  You're perfectly content gnawing meat off the bone, but it isn't the only way you know how to prepare it.  Given how much trouble Gamzee seems to have summoning an appetite lately, putting a little effort into presentation couldn't hurt.  You scratch your ear, carving knife in hand.  "You, uh... want the rest of this in a stew, or something?"

 

Gamzee looks up at you with crumbs all around his mouth.

 

"What?" you ask.

 

He stares at you a moment longer, as you begin to fidget with the knife handle.  "You gonna cook for me?"

 

"You too good for my food after all your human crap?"

 

Gamzee shakes his head, hair whipping his cheeks.  "Naw, brother.  You just don't get down inside the nutritionblock much.  Thought it wasn't your motherfuckin' jam."

 

You shrug.  "It's not.  I... just kinda feel like it tonight.  Stew okay?"

 

Gamzee nods vigorously.

 

"Alright, then."  You roll up your sleeves.

 

It takes a little hunting, and some grudging questions, before you find everything you want, which drives home exactly how much you've been letting Gamzee do.  It's not that you never feed yourself... it's just that when you do, you eat things raw or burn them into digestibility with whichever of the accelerator or the comestible incinerator they fit into.  You know where to find the nutrition plateaus, utensils, and the massive baking tray you use for large game if Gamzee doesn't get to it first.  The rest is his purview.

 

Still, you get everything laid out on the counter.  You have the creature, a cannister of flour, some of the better looking specimens from your vegetable garden, and two large pots on the incinerator-top, one filled with water.  You brandish the carving knife.

 

"Got a cutting board," says Gamzee.

 

You turn around.  "A what?"

 

"Cutting board."  Gamzee points.  "On that hook there.  Makes a better plane for your choppin', and gets itself clean easylike after."  He raises his hands.  "You don't hafta get at it if you ain't feelin' it."

 

You yank the wooden slab off the wall and slap it down on the table in front of him.  He opens his mouth wide to pop in the last of his bread and jam.  "Now the meat," you say, going to retrieve your vegetables.

 

"But now I wanna eat stew!"  He looks almost distressed when you return with the potatoes, carrots, and onion (root vegetables have been the ones to flourish; for some reason, all your tomatoes and cucumbers are shriveled and pathetic).

 

"Really?" you ask.

 

" _Yeah._ "  He nods, wide-eyed.

 

"This recipe is simple as globes, Gamzee, don't get your hopes up."

 

" _Stew,_ " he repeats, watching you like a purrbeast next to its nutrition hemisphere.

 

You shake your head and sigh.  "It'll take a while, so don't worry.  Eat what's on your plateau."

 

Gamzee screws up his face for a moment, then rolls up the slice of roast and stuffs it into his mouth.  He pushes his plateau aside and slouches forward over the table, folding his arms to rest his chin on them.  He chews and watches you expectantly.  You look back at him for a long moment.  Then you shake your head again and start chopping.

 

When you get to the onion, he grimaces and leans back.  "You wanna leave the block while I do this one?" you ask.

 

He squints at the vegetable like he suspects it of plotting against him.  "I'll just let the peepstalks get beautiful."  He slumps against the back of his chair, eyes closed, arms folded across his chest.  "You're some kinda badass ninja," he says, as you begin slicing.  "Those motherfuckers fight dirty."

 

You snort, weirdly pleased.  "Oh, yeah.  Wasn't a threshecutioner wannabe for nothing."

 

"Ugggggh, best friend," Gamzee groans, throwing an arm over his eyes, "it's makin' all manner a warfare chemical up in the nutritionblock!"

 

"Christ, I'm nearly done."  You grin to yourself and dice more quickly.  Your eyes sting, but not badly, and you haven't done any fine knife work in a while.  Maybe it does feel just a little badass.

 

You rise to dump your chopped vegetables in the water, which is starting to bubble, and rinse off the cutting board.  "Okay, it's safe, now.  You can open your eyes."

 

You plunk the remainder of the shank onto the cutting board and return to the table.  Gamzee opens his eyes warily, one at a time, before resuming his position half sprawled over the table.  He watches with apparent interest but no input as you carefully slice off the fat, and cube the rest.

 

"My lusus made me learn this," you say absently, working through a bit of gristle.

 

"He did?"

 

"Yeah.  He used to snap and hiss at me a lot for not eating properly.  I'd just eat meat raw out of the hull, if he didn't stop me."

 

"You were makin' trouble from an egg, weren't you, best friend?"

 

"I guess."

 

"Bet you were a cute wiggler, though.  That's probably why he didn't get to eatin' ya."

 

"Wigglers aren't cute, they're infuriating.  Me especially.  Anyway, he made himself an imperial pain in the waste chute until I learned some recipes.  Like he was in any position to chastise me for not liking vegetables..."

 

"Don't exactly wax red for them, now," Gamzee says.

 

"Yeah, well," you mutter.  You suppose the old crab would be happy you're feeding yourself.  And your idiot quadrantmate.

 

You scrape just the fat into your second pot and switch on the heat.  "This might not work out great," you warn Gamzee.  "You're supposed to start with _raw_ meat."

 

"That's cool," Gamzee says.

 

You look at him over your shoulder.  "Is there... anything you want me to add to this?"

 

"However you wanna be brewin' it's chill with me."

 

"I don't season," you say.  Gamzee shrugs.  You deliberate.  "What goes well with this creature?"

 

"Uh..."  Gamzee lifts a finger to point at the cabinet to your left.  Inside are a few boxes of weird Earth stuff, including a tea you like, and two rows of plastic and tin cylinders you don't recognize.  You may have seen Gamzee brandishing one while baking, but you're usually attending to some other task when he does.  "Try that blue one."

 

You find the tin cylinder with the blue label, and screw off the top.  You recognize the scent from some of the meat pastries Gamzee has made.  You turn enough towards him that he can see you, and reach in, draw out a healthy pinch of the dried, crumbled green leaves inside.  He doesn't say anything, so you dump it into the pot.  You reach in again, keeping your eye on him.  He still doesn't comment, so you deposit another pinch.  You replace the lid slowly, and when he doesn't object, you stick the cylinder back in the cupboard.  "Anything else?" you ask.

 

Gamzee looks at the ceiling for a second, then shakes his head.  You root around in the drawers for a long spoon and stir the leaves around with the fat.  You have to keep the heat low, so it's going to be slow.  You poke at the vegetables a bit.  The water's boiling, now, the vegetables still hard.  You fidget with the spoon.  Shift from one foot to the other.

 

"Oh, damn!" Gamzee says suddenly.

 

You jump.  "What?"

 

"You didn't get a visual on these eggs!"  Gamzee is looking upward when you turn around, with the unfocused look in his eyes that means he's watching his fetch modus strobe.  "Ah."  He smiles and reaches both hands out... and three speckled brown eggs appear in his arms, each the size of his head.  "You credit this, brother?"

 

"Not if I wasn't staring right at them.   _Wow._ "

 

Gamzee sets two of them carefully on the table, and holds out the third.  "Get your paws under this."

 

You take it from him, then have to pull up sharply to keep your hands from hitting the table.  "This thing must weigh fifteen pounds!"

 

"Yeah."  Gamzee rises to put them into the thermal hull.  "Some motherfuckin' planet."

 

You hand over the last one.  You never want to meet the flapbeast that laid that monstrosity.  "What're you even gonna do with 'em?  No way do any of your recipes call for _that_ much egg."

 

Gamzee's cycling through his sylladex again.  "Huh," he says.  "Didn't think too hard on that."  He pulls out a small, padded box filled with the dappled blue eggs you're used to seeing him use.  They're also from a flapbeast peculiar to this planet, but they're the size of Alternian cluckbeast eggs, and taste almost the same.  Next he produces a kerchief full of grey fungus.

 

"Hey, can I have some of those for the stew?"

 

"Shit, yeah!"  He holds out the kerchief.  You take a double handful and drop them in the sink.  "Want me to shine 'em up for you?"

 

"No, I got it," you say.

 

Gamzee finishes stowing his spoils in the hull and sits back down.  You wash the fungus, give your melting fat a stir, then slice the fungus under Gamzee's placid gaze.  "Here," you say, when you finish, holding a slice under his nose.  He manages to lick your thumb as he takes it, with a smile that says it's deliberate.  You scowl at him and return to the incinerator-top.

 

"Maybe I'll mix 'em all up," Gamzee says thoughtfully.  "Use 'em liquidlike, a little at a time."

 

You nod, stirring the last bits of unmelted fat in the pot, and reach for the flour.  "You've gotta just fry one of them, though, if you can figure out how."

 

"How come?"

 

You shrug.  "Don't you wanna see a fried egg that size?"

 

"Whoa, you ain't half inaccurate."  Gamzee laughs, delighted.  "That's breakfast tomorrow."

 

You dump in a spoonful of flour, which turns to lumps in the fat.  You shoot a surreptitious glance over your shoulder, stirring vigorously, but Gamzee doesn't seem to have noticed.  "How're you gonna do it?"

 

"I got a griddle," he says, holding out his hands.  "Slap it on over the incinerator-top.  Use it for grubcakes an' stuff what likes bein' flat."

 

Either you've really not been paying attention, or he pulls out all his shiniest toys when you're asleep.  He _does_ like to have breakfast ready when you get up.

 

"That still might not be size enough," Gamzee murmurs.  "But I'll make it happen."

 

_And I'll make you eat it,_ you think, as you add flour, more carefully this time.  You feel his eyes on you as you work up the gravy, thickening with the flour, thinning with broth from the vegetables.  It's been a very long time since you last did this, and your lusus always had plenty of complaints about it.  You keep expecting Gamzee to correct you, since he actually knows what he's doing around the incinerator, but all he does is watch, like what you're doing is really novel, or like he's sincerely looking forward to the result...  You grind your teeth.  Nothing you've made has been particularly palatable.  The only real goal you ever had was for it to stay down once you ate it.

 

"Have some more bread," you say, still focusing on what you're doing.  Gamzee groans.  "I'm not even half done.  It's not going to spoil your appetite."

 

There's silence for a moment, then Gamzee sighs gustily and you hear the knife working through the bread.  The jam lid clinks onto the table.

 

Gamzee munches and you stir.  The lumps are stubborn, but you finally break most of them down, and get the gravy to what you deem an acceptable volume and consistency.  You fish out your potatoes and carrots, tip them in with the meat and fungus, stir that up, and get Gamzee to tell you where the pot lid is.  You plop down into the seat across from him.  "Now, we wait."

 

He smiles serenely at you over his folded arms.  You let out a long breath and deflate over the other half of the table, sliding forward until your own bent elbows are just shy of his.  His nostrils flare.  "Smells pretty wicked."

 

"I promise you're going to be disappointed."

 

He chuckles and strains forward until your arms touch.  Even through your sleeves, his skin feels cool.  He doesn't look uncomfortable, though.  His whole right shoulder protrudes from his shirt, the deep plum bruise stark against pale gray skin.  You frown.  It's so bony.  For all that he's wider across, his shoulders are smaller than yours.

 

"Need to fix some more of your shirts," you mutter.

 

"No rush," he says.

 

"You're cold."

 

"Just motherfuckin' purple, is all."

 

"Maybe you need sleeves.  Keep some of the thorny flora off you when you're out foraging, too."

 

"Think that'd be a good look over me?"

 

"I'm not talking fashion, here."

 

"But if I get to lookin' good, how'm I gonna fend off the _horny_ flora?"

 

You glare.  "We are never talking about that."

 

"Some of those leafy motherfuckers be climbin' around my gatherin' trail."

 

" _Ever!_ " you growl.  He bites his lip and fails not to chuckle.  "You dipshit.  If you're picturing it, I'm gonna—"

 

"You know I ain't that brave," Gamzee lies.  "I'm just scrubbin' my pan a that whole scene."

 

"You'd better use the hard detergent, too."

 

"I'm gettin' at it with the steel ramscoat."

 

You hide as much of your face as possible behind your arms and glower until your forehead tires.  Gamzee closes his eyes with a blissful sigh.  You let your lids droop, your shoulders relax, and keep one nostril out for burning stew.

 

"Brotheeer..."

 

"What?"  His eyes are so fucking clear.  It's like they absorb all the light in the block.

 

"Best frieeend..."

 

"What?"

 

His right hand slides off his left arm and onto your right, fingers curling loosely over it.  "Karkat..."

 

You feel the flush rise in your cheeks.  "Wh-what?"

 

He opens his mouth, but your stew chooses that moment to come to a boil.  You start up from the table, dislodging his hand.

 

The lid comes off the pot with a cloud of steam that smells mostly of the leaves you added.  You stir experimentally, suspicious, prod at the ingredients.  "I... think it's ready?"  You make it a question in case he wants to jump in and avert disaster.

 

" _Yeahhh,_ " is his only comment.  He's propped up on his elbows, leaning forward as you approach with two nutrition hemispheres.

 

"That's hot," you say, as he reaches for one.  "Careful."

 

He purses his lips at it, then pulls it to him using the tips of his claws.  You plunk down a pair of spoons and sit.

 

Gamzee grabs one.  You brandish yours with less enthusiasm.  The stew runs a little too quickly over it.  You've done it wrong.

 

Gamzee blows on a raised spoonful with intense concentration.  He's almost squirming in his seat, exerting a visible effort to be patient, blowing with exaggeratedly puckered lips on a chunk of meat and carrot.  Finally, that particular mouthful stops steaming, and he rams the spoon into his mouth.

 

His eyes narrow, his lips twisting.  You're about to go get him some water when he chews, then swallows.  He sits up straighter and pulls the bowl close before spooning up more.

 

You try yours.  As you observed, the gravy base is too thin, and it tastes like those leaves, with only a hint of meat flavor.  The potato is too hard, the meat too chewy.  Another spoonful reveals both underdone carrots, and others that are mush held together only, it seems, by vegetal solidarity.  Even by your standards, this is subpar.

 

"Hey," you say, "you can just—"   

 

Gamzee is mostly hidden by his nutrition hemisphere, tipped in front of his face as he uses the spoon to scrape the last of his stew into his mouth.  "Mm?"

 

"Did... you finish that?"

 

He swallows noisily and lets the hand holding his hemisphere fall to the table, knuckles striking hard enough to make you wince.  "Encore, invertebrother."

 

"You want _more?_ "  

 

Gamzee nods and wipes his mouth with the back of his forearm.  He catches the plateau swab you chuck at him and wipes his arm.  "Ain't there enough?"

 

"Yeah, there's loads, but..."

 

He holds his hemisphere up to you with both hands.  "Please."

 

You rise and take it from him.  He digs in as soon as you return it, spoon clattering against porcelain.  You pour a couple beverage cylinders of water and resume your seat.  You stir your bowl with your spoon and try another mouthful.  It's not _offensive_ ; it just doesn't taste like much of anything, even though the raw ingredients were pretty good on their own.  Compared with the fare Gamzee has you accustomed to, it's swill you'd be ashamed to slop a tuskbeast with.

 

Still, your objective is to remain a viable lifeform, not to act like some violet-blooded snob at an underwater mealdome, and you went and wasted that whole shank on this bilge, so you tuck in.

 

Not halfway through your hemisphere, Gamzee demands another.

 

This is the most you've seen him eat, with the least harassment from you, since you got back from moving the Mother Grub.  You want to ask how he can get all that sludge down, but you're not willing to break his flow.  You finish your portion, which on top of the grubcakes leaves you very full, just in time to get Gamzee his third refill.

 

He eats this more slowly, chasing the fungus around the hemisphere, sipping from his spoon.  He's not faking.

 

Finally, he pushes the empty hemisphere aside and licks his lips.  "Ohhh, man," he groans, stretching his arms over the table, either side of you.  "Meal sac's fittin' to bust."

 

You take his hands.  His left is hot from holding the hemisphere.  He strokes your knuckles with his thumbs.  "Good motherfuckin' stew, best friend."

 

"Did you burn off your tastefronds on the first bite?"

 

"Don't think so.  How's the display?"  He sticks out a long, glistening purple tongue, and you feel your temperature rise.  It's not tastefronds you're thinking about.

 

"Knock it off, phlegm tunnel."

 

He grins.  "Any more of that brew left?"

 

"A little.  Don't tell me you're still hungry."

 

"Nah, I'll be splittin' seams if I try an' pack in any more, but I wanna wrap that crazy porridge up safe."

 

"Seriously?  I don't wanna waste food, but you don't have to finish it.  I can have it for dinner."  Gamzee pouts.  Your eyebrows rise.  "You actually want it.  Oookay.  It's yours."  

 

"Thanks, best friend."  You get up to store your botched culinary experiment and put the utensils to soak.  He stretches luxuriously across the table, fanning his fingers.  He rolls onto his side as you come around the table towards him.

 

"That's a table, Gamzee," you say, "not a pile."

 

"Mm, now you're up and talkin'."  He sort of flows off the table, boneless as a slitherbeast, and tangles you in his arms.  His unpainted cheek is soft against yours.  "A nap in the motherfuckin' pile is just what the mediculler mandated."

 

"I just got up.  Hey!"  Gamzee slides out of his chair, taking you with him.  "Put me down!"

 

"Aw, but you're all sunny warm, and you done said I was lettin' down the team with my Fahrenheits."  He starts toward the stairs, calmly adjusting to keep you in his arms as you try to twist out of them.

 

"I'm not a temperature control sphere!"

 

"Naw, those are no fun to snuggle."

 

"You're hurt, dammit, you're going to open your wounds!"  As soon as it's out of your mouth, you realize your squirming is just as likely to have that effect.  You go still, catching at his shoulder for balance, then snatch back your hand, because it's his bruised shoulder.

 

Gamzee grins at you.  "I'm all hale, best friend.  An' all hail a nap."

 

You cover your face and groan.  "That's terrible."

 

"I can make out worse."

 

"No, please.  I surrender."

 

"Good."  He pulls you closer as he jogs up the stairs.  You sigh and settle your head against his unbruised shoulder.  "It ain't a proper nap if you go it solo."

 

There's a huge pile of pillows and snuggleplanes in the leisureblock, off to one side of the couch where it still has a good view of the entertainment hub.  "Wait, Gamzee, no—!"  Gamzee turns his back to the pile and falls into it like a felled tree.  It knocks the breath out of him, but he doesn't miss a beat, turns onto his side, settling you next to him, and wraps himself around you.  "Don't do that again," you growl.

 

"Alright," he says.  He nuzzles your cheek and settles his chin over your shoulder.

 

"I'm not tired," you grumble, even as you shift, molding your back to his chest.  He brings his knees up under yours, almost curling the pair of you into a ball.  His arms are wrapped closely around your chest, one hand cupped around your hip.

 

"That's okay," he says, patting your side.  "You can just chill a piece with me."

 

"I guess..."  He yawns, and you try not to do the same, but fail.  "Just for a bit."

 

He wiggles his hips, closing the last little bit of space between you, and sets up a very quiet, low purr.  You try to maintain consciousness through annoyance, but it's a losing battle.  The next time you blink, your eyelids weigh a ton apiece.  You let them close.

 

* * *

 

The two of you spend most of the rest of the night in the pile.  Gamzee has the last of the stew for lunch, then at dinner you practically have to hold him down to make him eat his own grubloaf.  After each meal, you return to the leisureblock to curl up.  You mangle a couple of Gamzee's enlarged shirts with needle and thread, with _The Thresh Prince_ playing quietly in the background.  Gamzee dons headphones and mixes music on his husktop, your sides touching.  Every so often he hums a bar under his breath, gnaws on his lip, then hums it again with a couple notes changed.

 

You've tried using the enlarger on the alchemiter, too, but while you did manage to get a pair of shoes out of it that more or less fit, the shirt and pants are a lost cause.  The clothes he had when you entered the game weren't exactly tailor made, and Gamzee has continued to grow almost exclusively upward, until this latest spurt has him doing a convincing impression of an inverted shout pole.  Neither of you can get the alchemiter to spit out anything but a proportionally enlarged shirt or pair of pants, which means they'd be perfect on a troll about three times his width.  You wish you'd paid more attention when Kanaya drafted you into playing mannequin on the meteor.  She'd have altered these in a flash, but your efforts remind you of Troll Frankenstein's monster in the movies so old they only had twenty-word titles.  The moon is centered in the leisureblock window when you give up and decide to read instead.

 

Shortly, Gamzee closes his husktop and sets it on the couch.  He turns himself sideways in the pile, works one arm behind your back, wraps the other around your waist, and tucks his head against your stomach.  You set your book between his horns.

 

"You never put your paint back on," you say absently, stroking down his curls to turn a page.

 

"Doesn't put you in the most blissful of humors when I get it all into your threads."

 

"Mm."  His hair slides through your fingers like silk.  You keep stroking. He sighs, shifts his shoulders, settles.

 

You read about a human farmhand defending her genetic material (they call it virtue) against a morally bankrupt blueblood (only not literally blue).  Dave recommended this author to you ironically, so you're never going to tell him, but everything this woman has written is fucking _gold_.  The way she understands the complexities of romance, you'd think she was secretly a troll.

 

Gamzee's arms tighten around your waist.  "Karkat..."

 

You set your book aside.  "What is it?"

 

He presses his cheek against you.  "You were kinda intense, tonight, brother."

 

You frown.  That's one word for it.

 

"Sorry I got you prickly," Gamzee says.

 

"What?"  You crane to see his face, but at this angle, it's hidden.  "No.  I'm not mad at you.  Why would you...?"

 

His nose prods your stomach.

 

"Hey."  You poke his left shoulder—the safe one.  "Turn over."  You grab his other elbow.  "C'mon, turn over, you big—"

 

He unwinds his arms from around you and obliges, plopping his head in your lap. His eyes are dark purple in your shadow, face edged in moonlight.  He's not smiling.  You've seen too much of that expression lately.

 

"I'm not angry at you."  You rest a hand carefully on his chest.  "You didn't do anything wrong."

 

"But you were sayin'—"

 

"It's not your fault."  You heave a sigh.  "I don't know what the hell's wrong with me tonight, but it's not anything you did."

 

He holds up one hand and you give him your other one.  He threads your fingers together and rests your joined hands against your abdomen.  "I feel like you ain't feedin' me the whole a the truthloaf."

 

You avert your eyes.  "I... I don't know _._  I woke up out of sorts, and then I was worried about you, and you came back bleeding from every fucking orifice—"

 

He snorts.  "Wasn't all of 'em."

 

"I shouldn't have flipped my shit, Gamzee.  It's nothing...  I just..."

 

"You not get your sleep on proper?"

 

"No, I slept fine.  Really well, actually..."  You trail off, thinking.  He runs a finger along your right arm, waits.  "It's stupid," you murmur.

 

"Ain't no stupid in the pile."

 

Your mouth twists.  "I shouldn't..."

 

"Tell it at me, palebrother.  That's what the Mother Grub got to layin' my purple ass for."

 

You drag his hand up and hide your face behind it.  "I..."  You groan at yourself and finish in a rush.  "It really fucked with me that you weren't there when I woke up."

 

There's silence for a moment.

 

"I told you it was stupid," you say.  "That's not...  It's not even...  It's just that the past few evenings, you've been right on hand, and I got used to it, and it was nice, and..."  He pulls your hand down, and you look helplessly into his eyes.  "When I couldn't find you this evening, it threw me.  I don't know why."

 

"You were lonely."  His eyebrows are pitched up, deep concern in his expression.  

 

"No," you deny reflexively.  "That's not it."  

 

He's not convinced.  

 

"Fuck," you groan.  "I left you alone for weeks to help with the Mother Grub, I don't have any right..."

 

Gamzee pulls himself off your lap and kneels, leaning on his hands so he's closer to your eye level.  "You got all the rights, brother.  Every little one there is.  Let me rectify it."

 

"There's nothing to fix," you say.  "Don't you get it?  I'm being an asshole.  You don't have to—You shouldn't be _coddling_ me."

 

"No troll with half a panful would try to be coddlin' you," Gamzee says.  "I'm just pale for a brother, that's all."  He looks at you through lowered lashes, a hesitant smile on his face.  "Here we are in a wicked pile and everything.  Ain't you gonna share with a motherfucker?"

 

"That's low," you say.  He smiles a little wider.  "I'm not trying to put you on a leash, here, just...  I dunno...  Could you... maybe just not go out before I wake up?"

 

"Consider that shit done."

 

"Really?"

 

"You know it.  I wouldn't never make you lonesome purposeful, Karkat.  Not ever."

 

There goes your bloodpusher again.  You brush his hair back.  "Gamzee, I'm gonna kiss you, now, okay?"  

 

He gives you a quick little nod.  You knock foreheads in your rush to kiss him.  "Shit, sorr—mph."

 

For once, you're not sure it's you who parts your lips first.  Gamzee's hand cups your head as your tongues meet.  It's urgent and agitating in an unfamiliar way, and you wind your arms around him, needing him close.

 

"Ah—fuck, did I hurt you?"

 

Gamzee tilts his head to the side.  "Don't nothin' hurt when you got your hands on me."

 

"You are spectacularly full of shit," you grumble, and rise higher on your knees to kiss him again.  You slip your left hand under his shirt.  His soft skin is interrupted by the grainy texture of gauze.  You frown.  "Will you be cold without your shirt?"

 

"Not if you stick close," Gamzee says.  He's just a little breathless, which quickens your pulse.

 

You sit back on your heels and Gamzee pulls up his shirt, revealing the gaunt lines of his abdomen, the purpled bandages, the stark outline of his collarbone under his skin.  His hair tumbles around his face as the collar clears his head.

 

There's a low moan you don't realize for a moment is yours, and you grab his shirt, balling it around his upper arms, and push him backwards into the cushions with your mouth hard on his.

 

"Wait," Gamzee says, when you finally release his lips in favor of suckling at his throat.  He squirms under you.  "Still a piece tangled, here, brother."

 

You nip at his ear and he draws a sharp breath.  Your fingers flex in his shirt.  "I know," you say.  "Shut up."

 

The skin where you sucked flushes purple and you kiss it—half in apology, half to feel the blood against your lips.  You feather your fingers down his side, stroking the bare skin, skirting the bandages.  You drag your knuckles back up and trace one along his grub scar.

 

Gamzee hisses and arches his back, lifting you.  You grind your hips down against his stomach and mouth the juncture of his neck and shoulder.  

 

"Best friend," he rasps.  Cloth rubs together behind you and a knee bumps your back.  "Can I get my paws on you?"

 

"No," you say, twisting his shirt a little tighter.

 

"Aw, but—"

 

"No," you repeat.  "Look at the state you're in."  You look down over his prone torso, the bruises, the punctures, the alarming prominence of bone, and _yes,_ alright, maybe you _are_ a bit angry.  He's yours.  He _belongs_ to you, and what kind of sorry condition is this for your moirail to be skulking about in?  "You get to lie still."

 

"Brotheeer," Gamzee whines.

 

"Hush."  You lift his chin and kiss him.  He readily allows you in, twines his tongue with yours.  Your thumb traces his jaw, your other hand fisting in his shirt, bearing down hard on his arms.  Gamzee shifts fitfully under you and his moan tingles against your lips.  Your bulge pushes out of its sheath and you groan, plunge your tongue deeper, roll your hips against him.

 

Gamzee gasps for breath.  His cheeks are all lavender, his lips a little swollen.  Your gut clenches.  Your jeans are too tight.

 

"Keep your arms here until I say otherwise."

 

He opens his eyes only halfway, gazes dazedly up at you.  "Okay, best friend."

 

You nod jerkily and draw your hand back.  He remains obediently in position.  You take a deep, steadying breath.

 

"Brother?" Gamzee asks meekly.  "Gettin' a little sparse on degrees without your skin up on me."

 

You give him a narrow look.  He just keeps those sleepy, gem-bright eyes on you.  "Fine," you mutter.  You lean back and rip your shirt over your head, nearly taking your ears off with it.  You lob it behind you and lie down over him to give him a long kiss.  "Happy?"

 

His smile makes you ache.  "Uh-huh," he says.

 

You push yourself back to sit on his hips, your knees folded snugly to either side of his waist.  You run your hands lightly over his chest, mindful of the wounds.  "Gamzee," you say.

 

"Yeah, palebrother?"  His eyes close as you pet him like a purrbeast, his arms, his shoulders, his sides.  It makes it easier to stare; he always catches you, otherwise.  Not just his cheeks, now, but the skin of his neck, his chest, is starting to phase toward his blood color.  You like that shade.  All his colors, the old and the new.

 

The shiny smooth skin of his grub scars is a dark lilac.  Your fingers skate over them, right and left in unison.  You brush the back of a claw along the borders between scarred and healthy skin.

 

Gamzee's bulge nudges you through his pants, just emerging, and he gives a muffled groan, biting down on his lip.

 

"No biting," you say sharply.  "You've got enough holes in you already."

 

"But, brother..." he protests.  Through a layer of cloth and another of denim you can still clearly feel his bulge as it comes further out.  You ride his hips as they roll from side to side, his legs stretching and flexing behind you.  "Gettin' to feel all manner of flushed down here."

 

You're so warm.  You reach one hand behind you, between his legs.  He's warmer there than anywhere else, the fabric of his pants already damp.  He gasps when you press your palm against his nook.  Your bulge shoots the rest of the way out and strains against the leg of your jeans.  "Feeling pretty flushed down _here_ , too."

 

"You ain't lyin'," he groans.  He can't seem to help squirming, rolling his body up in search of more contact.  You shiver, your nook heating.

 

"Gamzee," you say breathily.  "Do you...  Can I...?"

 

His cheeks are dark, pupils huge.  "Whatever you wanna can, let's do that shit, brother."

 

You stifle an involuntary whine and rise up onto your knees.  You fumble your belt buckle open with shaky hands, pull the belt free, and toss it aside.  You wiggle your hips to slide your jeans and boxers down, and catch Gamzee watching, open-mouthed.  "Don't _look!_ "

 

"What else can a brother get to doing?" he asks.  "Already got me taxed not touchin'."

 

You avert your gaze and shove your jeans and boxers down to your thighs.  You hiss as you fish your bulge out of your pants leg.  Out of the corner of your eye, you see Gamzee's tongue dart out to moisten his lips.  Your bulge swells.

 

You're very careful as you lift your legs one by one and move back between his, not wanting to catch any stray anatomy under your knees.  Gamzee's hip bones are too sharp beneath your hands, but his skin is soft, and he starts up a loud purr as your thumbs dip under the waistband of his pants.  Before you can get them down, the moist tip of his bulge is nudging at your fingers, twines itself around your left wrist.

 

Gamzee lets out a shuddering breath, and you can see the muscles of his abdomen shift as he tries to keep still; his knee bumps your side, and his hips are moving in spite of him in tiny half-circles, first to one side, then the other, as he catches himself.

 

You reach down, with the end of his bulge creeping up your forearm, and take hold of it at the base.

 

Gamzee throws his head back with a guttural groan that makes your bulge writhe.  You shove his pants down with your right hand as you smooth your left up the rapidly slickening skin of his bulge, pulling it up and out.  

 

The feel of it in your hand makes you squirm.  The base is as wide as your hand; its sinewy strength under the smooth skin is enough to jostle your whole arm.  When you had it inside you, it seemed to fill your entire body.  The way it thrashed against your inner walls...  You chirp, then snap your jaw closed, face blazing.

 

"Brother," Gamzee says plaintively.  "Please..."

 

"Please what?"

 

"Nnnh, don't got a foggy one, best friend.  Anything!"

 

You wish you could pretend to be cooler than this, but you're just as desperate as he is.  As soon as your bulge brushes his, Gamzee's abandons your arm and coils around it.  You both groan; the sudden pressure and friction is overwhelming and you nearly finish right then and there.

 

You fall down over Gamzee, planting your hands on either side of him.  You drop your forehead to his chest and pant.  Your hips twitch in spite of you, wanting more friction against the pronounced ridges of Gamzee's bulge, wrapped so tantalizingly around yours.  You whine, high in your throat, as your body riots against your attempt at self-control.

 

"Oh, shit—nh—I've been wanting to do this all week," you say.  "I've been dying to get flushed again.  Is that awful?"

 

"Even a defective thinkpan the like a mine couldn't cook up no objection for that."  Gamzee shivers.  His legs either side of you are trembling with exertion.  He's trying so hard to obey you.  Your bulge thrashes.  "Nnnnow, brother?"

 

Your hands fist in the cushions.  "Now?"

 

"Can I get my feel on you now?"

 

You exhale through your teeth.  You're not going to come, not yet, no matter how good he feels, no matter what he says...  "Not yet," you say, and kiss his ribs between strips of gauze.  "Just..."  You push yourself up again.  "Let me handle it..."  Gamzee makes a pained sound, but stays put.  You touch his lips as he makes to bite them.  "What did I say?"

 

He looks up at you with huge eyes, and nods.  God, you're going to explode.  You have to move.  You have to.  

 

Your bulge feels like a flaming brand in the cooler grip of Gamzee's.  As you move through his coils, it shifts, too, sliding up and down your length.  It's hard to even tell where each pulse and twitch originates; you can feel him so clearly, his every reaction.

 

"Karkat," Gamzee moans.

 

Your hips stutter, forcing you to move faster.  You would swear his ridges set off sparks along your bulge.  "I've... got you," you breathe.  You're not sure if that's an answer, if that follows, but Gamzee lets his head fall back with a strangled cry, his eyes tight shut.

 

You're on fire, and he's not far behind you, anymore, rolling beneath you like the sea.  His claws dig into a pillow behind his head.  His arms shake.  "Hush," you say in a rough whisper.  "Gamzee, I've got you."  You stroke his cheek and he turns his face into it, pressing his lips to your knuckles.  You move harder against him and he trills, the sound resonating deep in your chest.  You've got him.  You have this under control.  You're going to take care of him.

 

You're so focused on the rise and fall of his body, the sweet tension on his face, that your own peak takes you by surprise.  It's a rush of heat and sensation as keen as pain, and you're clinging to him, moving through him, capable of seeing nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was pondering world-building for this fic, I was influenced by a couple different sources. [This post](http://reblog-corral.tumblr.com/post/72889477279/pyreticmiscreant-sketchyfantrolls-sup-guys) got me thinking about Alternia's climate millennia ago. (Then I got goofy.)
> 
> I was also reading and trying (and failing) to absorb [this chain of meta math and analysis](http://www.ashkatom.tumblr.com/tagged/alternian-calendar/chrono). I'm not going by their calendar exactly, but if I ever use the term "perigee" anywhere close to correctly, it'll be because I'm staring at it. Some of their biological extrapolation got me thinking about sleep with and without sopor, as well.
> 
> Thank you for the inspiring meta.
> 
>   
> **ETA:** Drew a couple (SFW) [scenes](http://lildogie.tumblr.com/post/92279371986/a-couple-work-safe-pics-from-a-fic-that-isnt) from this chapter. Beware of purple bruises.


	2. Chapter 2

There's an intermittent, muted click off to one side of you.  You listen for a while, trying to place it, before opening your eyes.  You're in your respiteblock, in a pile of mostly towels with a few snuggleplanes thrown over the top.  Gamzee fills your field of vision, next to you swathed in a snuggleplane, knees pulled up, husktop looking small balanced atop them.

 

A faint beat emanates from his headphones to which he nods his head gently.  His index finger taps along, then clicks the touchpad button.  He pauses, narrows his eyes at the screen.  His lips press together.  He nods again, once, twice.  The corner of his mouth flickers.  Another click.

 

Gamzee's eyebrows rise, and he turns toward you, slipping his headphones down around his neck.  His face splits in a wide grin.  "Mother fuck if that ain't the most fang you ever showed me at an evening."

 

You hold out your arms.  Gamzee sets his computer and headphones aside and throws his snuggleplane over you both to slip naked between your arms.  You pull him close, arching your back in a stretch.  "That's better," you mumble into his collarbone.

 

He presses his face into your hair and takes a deep sniff.  He hums an enthusiastic agreement.  "Good evening, my flushed palebrother."

 

Gauze scrapes your nose as you nuzzle against his chest.  You loosen your grip a little.  "Good evening."

 

"Mmm..."  Gamzee leans back to peer at you.  You try to wipe the smile off your face, but don't quite manage.  He nods emphatically.  "Yup, I got a preference on this."  He lets you haul him back in.  "Gonna make sure of this on the regular."

 

You relax against him.  Definitely a better way to start the night.  "You're cold."

 

He chuckles.  "Shoulda slapped some threads over my thorax before layin' the beats down, but I had a good jam rattling around my nugbone.  Was it too raucous?"

 

You shake your head, rubbing your face against him.  "Uh-uh.  You gonna make my ears bleed later?"

 

He makes an uncertain noise.  "Don't have it ready to spit at you.  Wanna smooth it out some, first."

 

"If you say so.  I'm looking at grievous auricular damage either way."

 

"You know that's right."  He traces the top of your left ear with one finger.  A frisson runs across your shoulders.  He curls the fingers of his other hand behind your right ear.  "Sorry, motherfuckers."

 

You lift your chin, close your eyes.

 

"Gonna be layin' down some strict rhymes what make you sting in a future date," Gamzee continues, lightly rubbing.  "Linin' my apologies up at the vanguard."

 

A rumble starts in your thorax.  You stretch your neck towards him.  "If you're so polite about it, I guess I'll be magnanimous and listen."

 

"That's a glad tiding, brother."

 

A few weeks ago, you wouldn't have considered this anything but pale, but now you're connecting dots you probably shouldn't.  Your fingers flex against Gamzee's back.  He scoots closer to avoid the tickle of your claws, pressing his bare front against you.

 

You sigh.  You want to touch him.  You wouldn't sit still and let him be the only one to show affection during pale cuddles, but those were always at least mostly clothed.  The sheer abundance of his bare skin, here, touching you, at your fingertips, is confusing.  His nudity never troubled you in the right context; you bathed him enough before.  You've stripped him to patch him up plenty.  Dressed or re-dressed him—when he wanted to explore the far north in short sleeves, for example.

 

But there wasn't this much skin when you cuddled, when you made out.  It makes it feel more flushed from the start.  You want to touch, but...

 

"Gamzee?"

 

"Mm-hm?"  He runs a couple fingers down your neck as the other hand massages your earlobe. You shift in the pile, wiggle your shoulders.

 

"Can I touch you, too?"

 

He rubs under your chin.  "'Course you can.  Why not?"

 

"Because, I... might be feeling a little flushed.  I... dunno if you want that.  Right now."  Your fingers twitch again.

 

"Any time you wanna wax a little redder, I got no complaints to lodge anyplace they be boarding those motherfuckers."  He puts his fingers to your temples, starts rubbing small circles.

 

Your eyes roll back and your purr ramps up in volume.  A strong troll could punch a hole straight through your skull from that spot, so all you'd ever thought about your temples before moirallegiance was how to keep them protected.  Gamzee discovered that a soft touch there could release all the tension in your head and neck.  Of course, you have to sit still for it, which you usually won't.

 

"You sure?" you ask faintly.

 

"I'm beyond sure.  Sure is snackin' on my dust."  His thumbs start working the corners of your jaw.  "Can't be leavin' out the frown muscles.  These motherfuckers work harder'n anybody."

 

"Nnnnnnshuddup," you slur, letting your arms go slack around him.

 

"Was it deeper red attentions you were jonesin' at?"

 

"I like what you're doing.  Don't stop."

 

"You got it."

 

"Mmmm..."  You let yourself go, muscles easing under his touch.  Your right hand slides down from Gamzee's back to his hip, then freezes.

 

Gamzee sighs and taps your jaw.  "There they go again."  He pokes the crease between your eyebrows.  "Here, too.  Done told you I don't mind."

 

"Well, I..."  You rub the hard point of his hip with your thumb.  "I'm not trying to get flushed...  I'm just saying I can't guarantee I won't."  You open your eyes to find him looking amused.  "Don't mock me.  This is... new."

 

He smiles.  "I ain't makin' fun, palebrother.  I feel you."  He kisses you softly and your eyes widen.  He never kisses you first.  It's just a press of the lips, but it starts your heart thumping.  "Just follow your flow," Gamzee says, resuming his facial massage, "and I'll float along with you.  Red's a beautiful color.  Don't much mind the shade."

 

Your fingers tighten at his hip.  "Wait," you say.  "One more.  One more."

 

"One a what?"

 

You grimace.  "Kiss me again."

 

"Can do."  His long lashes cast crisscrossing shadows over his cheeks.  He leans down and kisses each corner of your mouth, then presses his lips firmly against yours.  It's an effort not to push it further, but you resist, return the kiss just as he gives it to you, sweet and gentle.  After a long moment, he leans back.  "Good?" he asks.

 

You look aside.  "Can't you tell?"

 

"Hm," he says, but he's smiling.  He returns to rubbing your temples.

 

You let your hands spread, one on the small of his back, one on his hip.  It's strange for someone who used to subsist largely on substances with no—or negative—nutritional value, but Gamzee has extremely soft skin.  Not the almost rubbery skin of a sea dweller, just soft, almost as if he had fur.  It annoys you to stroke it and be interrupted by gauze.

 

"How do you feel tonight?" you ask.

 

"Blissed out and beautiful," Gamzee says.

 

"I don't mean that," you say, although the previous morning's activities can definitely be felt; your body just isn't willing to tense up the way it usually does at the slightest provocation.  You're not usually this easy to subdue.  It ought to bother you.  "I mean your flapbeast-related injuries."

 

"Don't even twinge," he says dismissively.

 

You hum skeptically and move your hands away from the bandages.  That means the only way to go is down, where your fingers graze the modest swell of his ass.  You gulp and move your hands around to the side.  Your right strokes down his leg.

 

"Did you eat?"

 

Gamzee grumbles and pokes you between the eyebrows again.  You try to relax your face.

 

"Nah," he says.  "Thought I'd wait on you.  You feelin' hollow?"

 

"Not enough to move."  You can't actually reach as far as his knee, not from this position.  You trail your fingers back up.  His extra height doesn't bother you.  There's something about it you like, something that draws your eyes and hands, invites you to map the altered terrain of his body like the wilderness outside.  You can't get at all of it right now, and you're enjoying the massage too much to shift him, so you content yourself to lazily canvas his hips and thighs, spreading your fingers wide to feel as much skin at once as you can.

 

Gamzee gives a satisfied sigh and smooths his thumbs across your forehead.  "Get at them scowl lines," he chuckles.

 

"Mmm."  You mean to sound menacing but it comes out appreciative.

 

There's no give at all to the back of Gamzee's thigh, just taut skin over lean muscle.  He twitches towards you as your fingers skate downward, stifling laughter.  There's nothing to spare in the front, either, though the muscle is denser.  Your fingers draw patterns from top to side.  Gamzee's falter on your face.

 

You let just your thumb skim over the top, brush towards Gamzee's inner thigh.  Finally, you feel just a little give; a tiny bit of flesh his growth spurt hasn't managed to strip away.  You exhale through your nose, resisting.  Well.  He did say to follow your flow.  The flow says you want at least a little more of that softness.

 

You slip your hand between his legs.  Automatically, he presses them together, trapping your hand between the cool, plush give of his inner thighs.

 

"No more massage?" you ask innocently.

 

"Fingers got plenty a juice left," he says slowly.  He resumes and his legs relax a little.  You slide your hand down, then back up.  Down and up again.  Gamzee shifts his hips.

 

You're both lying on your left arm, so you can't maneuver it as well, but you push that hand down and around.  The weight of one cheek settles pleasantly in your palm.  Gamzee catches his breath.

 

"Too flushed?" you ask.

 

"Don't mind," he says, voice a little breathy.

 

You knead his thigh gently.  There's not far you can squeeze before you touch muscle, but you still like the feeling of yielding flesh, and the slightly higher temperature hidden away here.  You picture the place just a little further up where you know he's even warmer.  You don't realize your hand is moving until Gamzee inhales sharply and squeezes his legs together again.

 

"Oh, shit, shit.  I didn't claw you, did I?"

 

"Nuh-uh," Gamzee says faintly.  His hands have stilled.  One thin fold of delicate skin rests against the meat of your thumb.  It's warm—not as warm as you—and dry.  It feels tender and vulnerable.  Your bulge stirs in its sheath even as you have a strong impulse to pull away.

 

"You, uh..." you say.  "Can I touch a bit more?"

 

"Mm-hm..."

 

Very mindful of your claws, you nudge your hand further up.  Gamzee makes a soft sound as the base of your thumb nestles between the lips of his nook.  His hands lower to your shoulders.  You don't move for a moment, just feeling him against you, all soft, crinkled skin and warmth you think you can actually feel rising.  His heartbeat pulses against your hand.  You swallow hard.

 

"Gamzee," you say, "I'm definitely feeling flushed."

 

"I'm wanderin' around that hivecluster myself, brother."  His cheek rubs against your head.  "Somethin'...  Anything you want me to get at?"

 

You consider.  "No...  Just tell me if I do anything you don't like, okay?"

 

"Okay," he says.

 

You slide your hand deeper between his legs, dragging the edge of your thumb along his nook.  He shudders.  "Good?" you ask.

 

"Mm," Gamzee answers.

 

His folds swell and moisten around you as you rock your hand back and forth.  His fingers tighten on your shoulders as his fluids begin to drip over your knuckles.  You take an uneven breath and narrow your eyes at the pleasant stretch of your sheath as your bulge emerges.  

 

You keep your movements slow, gentle, but have to push a little harder as Gamzee squeezes his thighs together, hips squirming.  His breaths over your head get louder as he gets wetter.  Your own nook heats in response as your bulge creeps up your belly.  You ignore them both as best you can.

 

You work your left arm out from under your moirail and shift back to give yourself better access.  You run your hand sideways down his stomach to his groin, fingertips lifted.  As wet as he is, only the pointed tip of his bulge pokes out of his sheath.  It draws a slick line across your palm.

 

Your eyebrows rise.  How does that work, exactly?  You never made a serious study or anything, but you tend to get aroused bulge first.  From the way Gamzee's leg muscles twitch, his rapid breathing, you can tell he's enjoying himself... right?

 

"Gamzee, am I... doing alright?"  You sound like an idiot.

 

"Hell yes, palebrother," Gamzee rumbles.  "Don't be stoppin'."

 

So there you have it.  You brush your palm idly over his bulge-tip, spreading a spidery trail of fluid over your hand.  If it were yours, you'd use your thumb to encourage it out, but though you're tempted, you won't risk catching a claw in any of the delicate surrounding skin.

 

Instead you keep rocking your hand against him.  His slick folds heat against your skin, filling with blood and becoming tender.  Gamzee grips you more tightly, a tiny, voiced edge to each exhalation that makes your bulge curl.

 

"Gamzee," you say, and when did _your_ breathing get so uneven?  "You can move if you want to."

 

"Mmm, but best friend, you gone and... found the... sweet spot..."

 

You falter, and he makes a mournful noise, followed by a sigh of relief when you resume.  Your bloodpusher thumps hard.  "I... have?"

 

"Ohhh, yeah, brother," he murmurs.  His hips twitch.  "You're reignin' over it like the sternest monarch ever to get her rule on."  His voice pitches up and his next few breaths end on almost a squeak.  "Got all the trolls shining their boots," he pants, "dressin' up pretty to get prostrate at you."

 

You grin.  "That good, huh?"

 

"So good," Gamzee whispers.  "Don't wanna get to blockin' your flow none...  Oh.  Shit.  Brother...!"

 

His bulge pushes its way out, almost knocking your other hand aside.  You catch it and let it push through your loose fist.

 

Gamzee presses his head hard against the top of yours and groans.  His bulge stretches up over his abdomen to his chest.  It pulses under your hand, straining against you at first, but as you start to stroke, it begins to move with you, pushing up into your grip as you slide down, coiling back as you pull up.

 

Your thighs are soaked.  There's a throbbing pressure in your nook and your bulge is curling desperately around itself, dying for attention.  Gamzee's every sigh and shudder winds you tighter.  

 

"Karkat," he breathes.  "I'm... fittin' to..."

 

Your hips jerk.  "Go on," you say, as breathlessly as if it were _your_ orgasm welling up in you.  "Don't hold back, Gamzee...  Come."

 

He makes a sharp noise into your hair.  His legs clamp around your hand and his hips surge forward, grinding his nook down against your wrist.  His body trembles as his hips roll, painting your forearm with lukewarm genetic material.

 

You shiver and try to keep stroking his bulge, but his movements are too frenetic to keep up with, and soon he's too close for you to manage.  You put that hand around his shoulder instead and pet him, murmuring encouraging nonsense.

 

Gamzee utters a long, low moan and grinds to a stop on your arm.  His back bows and he freezes, quivering.  "Kaaaarkaaaat!"

 

Genetic material splashes across your arm.  Gamzee remains unmoving in his arc for a long moment, breathing raggedly.  Then he goes boneless beside you.  You let out your breath in a whoosh.

 

You shift back, wanting to see his face, which drags your arm along his nook.  Gamzee goes rigid again and grabs your elbow.

 

"Wha—?"

 

He shudders and swallows hard.  "T-too jumpy down there, brother.  Uhh...  um..."

 

It takes you a second.  "Oh.  Oh.  Sorry.  Did that hurt?"

 

"Nooo," Gamzee pants.  "Not hurt, just... uh...  System'll overload."

 

"O... okay."  You stay still.  His nook twitches against your skin.  His breath stirs your hair.  Finally, his fingers loosen.

 

"Try to... take it out easy-like."

 

You chew the inside of your lip to stifle a laugh.  "Let up with your legs, and I will."

 

"Oh.  Right."

 

You're a little sad to be released from their tight press, but your arm is beginning to cramp.  You move your hand down and away.  Even so, he shivers violently.  You wipe your arm surreptitiously on a towel and wiggle your way up till you're at Gamzee's eye level.

 

Gamzee's cheek is smushed into the side of the pile.  His whole face is suffused with lavender, lips parted as he breathes like he just collapsed after a pitched battle.  He smiles lazily, eyes almost closed.

 

"You look totaled," you say.  Mr. Romance, that's you.  "Are you okay?"

 

"Totaled just about sums that shit up," Gamzee drawls.  "Hurricane Karkat blew through the seaside hivecluster and tore the motherfucker up.  Walls sailin' every which way, roofs flyin' like flapbeasts.  Ain't nothin' left on the beach, now."

 

You bite your tongue.  Apparently you're not only an emperor, but a natural disaster as well.  "Don't blow smoke up my waste chute."

 

Gamzee's eyes close.  "Spittin' sooth and not a thing else.  Dunno where you trained up those hands of yours, but lettin' 'em dance on a sickle's just plain a waste."

 

"So I should lie around playing with your nook all night."

 

His knees bump you as he rubs his legs together.  "I wouldn't fling no objections on that."

 

He's too peaceful for you to curse him out for lying through his fangs, so you just watch his face as you wait for the heat to fade from yours.  Soon he drapes an arm over you and pulls you close.  His bulge is still out between you, but not moving much, just shifting slightly, as calm as the rest of him.

 

He looks at you, eyes fully open.  "You're out."

 

So much for the blood leaving your face.  "Of course I am!" you sputter.  Your bulge brushes the middle of Gamzee's and immediately wraps around it.  He catches his breath.  "Nh.  Shit, sorry.  I'll get it off."

 

"Nah, don't do that, brother.  Can't be leavin' you in a like condition.  That ain't pale _or_ flushed."  His hand settles on your hip.  "Just caught me a surprise.  I mean... I wasn't doin' nothin' reciprocal..."

 

Your bulge squeezes, and his undulates, ridges pulling along your skin.  "Are you fucking kidding me?  You—"

 

"Kaaarkat."

 

Your nook clenches.  Fuck him and his voice.  "What."

 

"Let a brother show you some appreciation?"

 

"Sure, fine, whatever.  If you want."

 

"I want," he says.  He kisses you.  You open your lips and his tongue flickers inside.  You huff out a breath through your nose, trying not to give yourself over.  It feels selfish to pull Gamzee from his state of—ha!—post-hurricane calm.  Maybe you should just go indulge in some long and involved ablutions.  Or...

 

Or you could stay right here and let Gamzee kiss you breathless.  You could do that.

 

Your right hand creeps up his back to hold onto his shoulder.  Kissing him is always a mistake if you want to do anything else anytime soon.  Moreso now that you've pailed, and the associations are all muddled in your pan.  He's so sweet, so careful, that it makes your limbs weak, bleeds the fight out of you.  And yet... now his tongue slipping deeper into your mouth makes you think of other places he's tasted you, the other way he's been inside you, and those thoughts feed a fierce heat and tension, a need that is anything but pacifying.

 

You start when Gamzee rubs your horn, and break the kiss.  "Wait, stop."

 

He opens his fingers.  "Not feelin' it?"

 

"No, I am, but I'm fine just having a little pale make-out and then resting."

 

"Don't really feel like that," he says.  "Pretty good grip that red rattlebeast's got on me."

 

"That doesn't mean you have to do anything about it.  It'll go away on its own, eventually."

 

"More satisfying if I charm that motherfucker back into his basket, though."

 

"Why.  Why that metaphor?"

 

Gamzee chuckles.  "Bulges and slitherbeasts just seem to twine together natural.  Kinda like a matesprit bein' all cuddled up to me, out and flushed, and me layin' hands on him to make him purr.  But that's just my thinkin' on the matter."

 

Your hips twitch and your bulge slides along Gamzee's.  He still seems very relaxed, but the flush hasn't faded from his cheeks, and he has that look in his eyes, the one he gets when he washes your hair or serves you breakfast.  It's hard to resist.  You stop trying.  "Okay, but... I still say it's a waste to get all riled up again."

 

"All riled up, then all riled down."  He resumes rubbing your horn and you hiss.  "Sweet little journey to make of an evening."

 

"Gamzee..."

 

He kisses you and rolls you onto your back.  His long body presses you down into the pile.  You shiver all over. There's something wrong with you.  Why do you like that so much?  

 

He keeps working your horn as he kisses you, massaging the base with his thumb, then stroking to the tip.  His weight makes it difficult to move your hips.  Your bulge twists and writhes harder to make up for lost friction.  Gamzee's tongue swipes your top lip as he pulls back; he seems to reconsider, and nips your bottom lip, making your bulge jump.  He smiles as he pushes himself up onto his elbows.  "Gettin' riled?"

 

You squirm, and the fact that it doesn't shift him makes you wetter.  Your face blazes.  "Yes, damn it."

 

"Good," he purrs, and pushes himself up your body, bulge pushing through yours, hips still pinning you.  He shifts his left hand to the side of your face and gets the fingers of his right around your other horn.  Before you can react, he licks your right horn.

 

You jerk, then screw your eyes shut and groan as he does it again.  Keeping you steady so you don't headbutt him, he begins laving your right horn in slow, methodical stripes, as he rubs your left with his other hand.  Your ragged purr ascends into a high-pitched trill when he seals his mouth over the whole horn.  You clutch at his back, arching up against him.  His tongue curls around the sensitive base, then he sucks.  You twitch, nerves firing off down the back of your scalp, bulge squeezing tight.  He pulls up with an obscene slurp, lips dragging along your horn, suction retreating to the very tip, then lowers his head again.

 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _shit_ , Gamzee!"  You're wet all the way to your knees.  Your nook is so hot, so _empty_...  "Please!" you sob.

 

Gamzee disengages noisily.  Your wet horn tingles.  He's still working the other with his fingers.  You groan, desperate, pushing your hips against him.  "I take requests, brother.  What's your pleasure?"

 

You shudder.  "Pail me.  God, Gamzee...  It _hurts_ not to have you inside me right now."

 

Gamzee doesn't respond immediately.  He keeps rubbing one horn, then licks a slow stripe up the other, wringing a sharp sound from you.  "Couldn't be denyin' you when you ask so pretty," he says, voice low and resonant.  He shifts down till you're face to face again.  "Be lyin' if I said I didn't wanna get nestled all snug up in you..."

 

A sharp pang in your nook makes you moan.  "Yes," you say fervently.

 

"But Karkat," he says, watching you apprehensively, "you're gonna be strict at me, right?  Gonna make sure I'm not wreakin' damage on you."

 

"You didn't hurt me before," you say gently.  "I'll make sure you don't this time, either.  Don't worry."  You raise an eyebrow.  "I told you I need to train up, didn't I?"

 

He smiles, cheeks darkening.  "You did say that."

 

You work your legs out from under him and squeeze him with your knees.  "Told you I'd need a training partner."

 

He licks his lips, swallows.  "Then, if I let you go missin' one, that just wouldn't be pale."

 

"So," you say.

 

"So..." he says, thumbing your horn.  You exhale breathily.

 

You've warmed his chest quite a bit; you hum approvingly as you smooth your palms down his thorax—lightly, not exerting any pressure.  His bulge is still cooler than your fingers as you slip them under your own.  You hold his gently and unwind yours; Gamzee's bulge doesn't fight you the way it did earlier, but yours does.  It curls around your palm, demanding attention which you deny it.  You pull free to grasp Gamzee with both hands.

 

His lids lower and he breathes unevenly as you grip him firmly in one hand, stroke slowly up and down with the other. His bulge seems sleepy; still engorged enough to be fully out, but content to luxuriate in whatever you give it rather than lashing in desperate need of release. That makes it easier to handle; you actually have to engage your strength to wrangle it, otherwise. A tremor runs through your arms and your nook muscles ripple.  "Can I," you start, then swallow to wet your throat.  "Can I... put it in?"  Okay, you feel ridiculous.  You clench your jaw.

 

Gamzee's gaze flickers away, then back.  "All... all right," he says.  "Let me make you some room."  He rises a little on his knees.  You frown at the sudden lack of his weight, the chill air in his absence, but it makes enough space between you for you to guide his bulge downward.  He rises higher as you do; his thighs are long enough that with your faces level, his torso ending a ways after yours, only the end of his bulge will reach your nook.  You hesitate, holding it gently just above the diamond tip.  You have to pull your bulge back, out of the way.  You reach with your free hand, then stop, flushing.

 

You look up, defensive, but Gamzee isn't watching what you're doing; he's watching you.  Your eyes lock and your heart thumps hard.  "Ready?" you ask.  Seriously, you're positive there were better lines somewhere in your novels.  You need to do some rereading.

 

"I'm ready, best friend."

 

You nod.  You don't quite manage to look away.  What exactly is he looking at so intently?  At least, though, if he's staring at your face, he can't see you spread the lips of your nook, and—

 

"Rg."

 

"What happened?"

 

"Nothing—I almost ripped myself a new one, but I'm good."

 

"Careful, brother..."

 

"I'm careful, I'm careful..."

 

Hm.  Shit.  You... honestly never mess with your nook, except very gingerly to wash.  Because you have _claws_ , and you only want _one_ nook.  So where exactly _was_ your—?  Gamzee's tip brushes over your entrance and you stiffen.  Yup, that's it.  All you have to do is pull him a little further down, and his bulge undulates sedately against you, then pushes in.  You inhale sharply.  Given Gamzee's position above you, his bulge doesn't have room to do any more than that, and it's still sleepy, seems content to shift dreamily, just inside you.

 

Gamzee's lips part and the color deepens in his face.  Even more when you run your finger up the ridged underside of his bulge.  His tip stirs and your muscles squeeze, trying to feel more of him.

 

"You can come a little closer," you say.

 

He pauses for a moment, then nods.  As his hips lower, his bulge slides smoothly in another inch.  You shiver.  "Keep coming."

 

His bulge isn't the uncontrollable force it was the last time, which makes it easier—unavoidable—to focus on its slow progress.  You can feel yourself slowly parting, stretching around him.  The coolness of him makes a clear distinction within you; you know exactly where you end and he begins, can feel every ridge and contour of him sinking into you.

 

You can't take your eyes off his.  They bore into yours and it's... more troubling than the penetration, more intimate.  He can see your every twitch, pauses every time you wince.  He can see the way your lips tremble, how deeply you're blushing.  God, he can see _everything._

 

He slows his descent as it starts to get tight.  It's agonizing when all you want is more, when it feels like your body is trying to pull him deeper, and it's all you can do to resist grabbing him and pulling him down on top of you.  But the way he's looking at you, you can't do it.  If you lied and told him you were ready, he'd know.

 

You chirp as your nook tightens, and your knees squeeze hard against his sides.  Gamzee hisses, eyes narrowing.

 

"Ah—sorry!"

 

"Didn't hurt," he assures you.  He takes a few rapid breaths.  "But you gotta be more chill, matesprit."

 

You chirp again, your nook squeezing him all the way along.  "Don't look!" you say, and cover his eyes with both hands.  "God, it's too much.  Too much."  Watching your fingers warily, as if his gaze might burn through, you take a deep, wavering breath, then another.

 

Gamzee smiles, fangs peeking out behind his lips.  "I gotta see you, brother."

 

"No," you say.  Your hips rock up, seeking more of him, but he rises as soon as he realizes what you're doing, denying you.  You give a petulant moan.  "Come on, Gamzee.  You... you don't need to see."

 

He turns his head to kiss your wrist.  You catch your breath.  "I need it, palemate."  Another kiss.  "Need the sight of you."  He licks you slowly, leaves the wetness prickling against your pulse.  "Like a brother needs air."

 

You let your hands slide slowly down his face.  He keeps his eyes closed.  Your hands come to rest on his shoulders.  "It's not fair," you grumble, "talking like that.  It's dirty."

 

His smile stretches and it hurts your heart.  He should always be smiling like that.  "Can I get a peek on, then?"

 

"Yeah," you sigh.

 

It's ridiculous the look he gives you when he opens his eyes.  Like he forgot your face in such a short span and is thrilled by the surprise.  You _know_ what you look like; it's impossible he's seeing the same thing.

 

"No, brother."  He brushes your cheek with his knuckles.  "Don't be starin' off."

 

You meet his eyes again and don't quite stifle a whimper.  Your cheeks burn.  Your whole body is alive with heat.  "Gamzee," you say, "don't stop."  He nods and resumes his slow descent.  His cool bulge thickens as it moves through you, ever so gradually stretching you, stroking you maddeningly slowly, inexorably filling you.

 

Gamzee's breathing quickens.  The flush in his cheeks moves down his throat to his chest.  You can see him so well, suspended over you like this.  His body is a troubling mix of fine-boned delicacy and graceful strength.  You want more meat on him, but you can see the power in his arms, holding him up and holding himself back.  You want him wider, more solid, but you love the lines of him, the flow of his torso into his hips, the subtle curve of his thighs.  His hair falls around his face, curling over his neck and shoulders, a few strands sticking to the sheen of sweat at his temples.

 

You trill when you try to speak, close your mouth and swallow hard.  "Gamzee..."

 

He tosses his head to throw his hair out of his face.  It slides right back.  "Yeah, best friend?"

 

"You're..."  You bite your lip.  He watches you expectantly.  His pupils are wide and dark, irises glittering.  You can't say it.  "I..."

 

"Speak it for me."

 

You worry your lip.  The words just won't come.  You whimper in frustration.  "More," you say.  Demands are easier.

 

It seems to you he fits more easily than before.  His eyes are locked on yours the entire time, and it's hard, but you don't look away, even when the stretch from the base of his bulge brings tears to your eyes.

 

"Brother—!"

 

"Doesn't hurt," you breathe.  "Don't move."  You wind your arms around his, hold on and breathe.  Your nook flutters around him.  Your chest heaves.  "It's just—It's just..."

 

Gamzee waits, but when you don't finish, he asks, "You sure you ain't hurt?"

 

You nod emphatically.  Your breath comes out in a whine.  The first time, he was watching what he was doing, looking to you for confirmation, but the rest of the time he couldn't see your face.  You're so much more open this way, exposed, and somehow that makes your body more sensitive, or just makes you hyper-aware of it.  It would be easier if he weren't looking...  But part of you is afraid if you ask him to stop again, he really will.

 

"Gamzee?"

 

"Yeah, brother?"

 

You shift your hips, feeling the weight of him inside you.  His bulge is just undulating slightly, like a pennant in a gentle breeze.  Your fingers flex against his forearms, trying to hold yourself back, wanting to pull him closer.  "I don't know," you admit.

 

"Got my familiarity with that sensation."

 

Your mouth quirks.  He grins.  This goofy motherfucker.  How does he do this to you?

 

"Would you get impatient if we just acclimatized a piece?"

 

Your body's already humming, your hips twitching, but you raise an eyebrow and give him your best attempt at cool.  "By all means, acclimatize.  Make my nook sound like a hostile alien planet, or something."

 

Gamzee snorts, then bites his lip and laughs through his nose.  "Planet Nook," he giggles.

 

"I think I've seen that vid," you deadpan.

 

"Shit," he says.  "Me, too."

 

"Well, don't try a reenactment."

 

He nods.  "Pailing in zero-g would leave the block a real mess."

 

You laugh.  "If it weren't for that, I'd okay it.  ...What?"

 

He's watching you, smiling, peaceful but alert.  "Just gettin' accustomed.  Gettin' my feel on.  Gettin' you painted nice and bright on my pan."

 

"No one needs that," you grumble.

 

"Just this one troll I got my know on of.  This one invertebrother who stole up all the blessings the universe had lying around, got his ass not one but two quadrants from the baddest motherfucker ever to swing a sickle."

 

A tremor runs up your spine.  "Flattery will get you nowhere," you say.

 

"I don't wanna get noplace.  I'm already where I wanna be at."

 

You run your hands as far up his arms as you can reach, pet him as you try to come up with something smart to say.  It doesn't work.

 

"Karkat," he says, and your hips roll in response.  "She went and laid you just for me.  My sunset red diamond.  Only one a you on the planet, and she made you so perfect, brother..."

 

"Ugh, Gamzee, shut up."  You could never talk like this.  There's not a shred of artifice anywhere in his expression.  "How can you spew garbage like that with a straight face?"

 

Gamzee shrugs.  "Being all... linked up like we're at, seeing you all laid out for me, like the bloodthirstiest, most beautiful present the universe ever got at bestowin' on a troll...  Knowin' I got you here with me, feeling how you let me in, havin' you hold me all tight, it makes my pan wax lyric.  Sets these words to bubblin' in me, Karkat."

 

"Oh, god..."

 

"Brother?"

 

"Oh, oh fuck," you squeak.  "It's... it's _growing!_ "

 

"What is?"

 

"Y- _you_ are!"  You clamp your jaw shut—uselessly, as the trill thrums right up through your throat.  "Your _bulge_ —"  It's swelling inside you.  It thickens, pressing out against your inner walls, spreading your entrance even wider.  "Fuck—fuck—I _thought_ it went in easier, oh _god_.  Gamzee—nnh!"

 

His arms shake and his breathing quickens.  "Best friend, should I—?"

 

"I'm fine, I'm good, I'm fine."  You chirp and arch your back.  Your hands slide back down to his forearms and squeeze.  "Oh, shit, please tell me you're ready to move, Gamzee, it's killing me, I want to... I want to..."  You whine as his bulge begins to thrash.  "I'm so hot, Gamzee, please move."

 

"You're molten, brother."  His throat bobs.  "You'll tell me, Karkat, you'll keep the reins tight over me?"

 

"Yes, _yes_ ," you say.  "Fuck, Gamzee, I need you to move, I need it...   _Oh_..."  You almost protest the loss of pressure at your entrance when he draws back, but he doesn't go far.  The relief when he pushes back in is staggering.  You whimper.  "Oh, oh... Yes."

 

Gamzee breathes heavily through shining lips.  Still he watches you.  It's like being devoured by those bright eyes.  They drink in your every twitch and shiver, but you can't stop yourself.  And, you realize, you can see his reactions, too.  The way his eyes narrow when your nook squeezes around him.  The way his chin juts as he pushes into you.  The relieved little huff of air when he seats himself fully inside.  It makes you want to clasp him to you, stroke his hair, kiss him, but you don't want to take your eyes off him.

 

His bulge is so thick, now, it seems to stretch your entire body, but he moves so carefully that nothing hurts.  There's only the overwhelming awareness of him, the gathering tension in your nook, behind the base of your bulge.  You want more, harder, but you don't want it to end.  You hook your ankles behind Gamzee's hips and pull him in.

 

His breath stutters.  "Careful, best friend... I'm—"  His muscles under your legs flex and shift.  Your nook tightens in response.  "Startin' to peep on the finish line over up ahead a me."

 

"It's okay, Gamzee.  I want it..."  Your hand strays to your abdomen.  "Right..."  Your voice fades till you're not sure he'll hear you.  "Right here."

 

Gamzee groans, head falling forward.   "Mother fuck, brother, you're like to melt me."

 

The threads of orgasm creep along your nook, drawing taut.  "Fuck," you moan.  "Yes, do it.  Melt."

 

It blooms through him, lavender rising under his skin, muscles tensing, chin lifting.  His eyes close and his features relax into an expression of wonder.  You chirp and clench around him.  His hips jerk, he inhales through wide-open lips, chest swelling.  

 

You feel it start, so you're bewildered when he pulls back, rising on his knees until only the last few inches of his bulge are left inside.  

 

" _Karkat_ ," he breathes.

 

A cool stream of material rushes into you.  You yelp, go rigid with surprise.  There's so much force behind it, it feels almost solid, a soft-edged bulge thrusting fast and deep.  It loses cohesion a long way in, splashes down.

 

"Ah—"  You feel a twinge low in your abdomen, then a delicious stretch in the roof of your nook as your material sac opens.  It begins to draw, _hard_.  "Oh—nh—shit..."  You cling to Gamzee's arm.  The claws of your other hand dig into your abdomen as it swells.  It's the liquid rush and the burgeoning pressure throughout your sac, pushing down against your nook, that finish you.  Gamzee's name bubbles from your lips as pleasure pulses up from behind your bulge. Your legs lock around him, your nook squeezing hard around the tip of his bulge.  He gasps and you shudder convulsively, riding it out.

 

"Nnnnnngh."  Gamzee's hair tickles you as he kisses your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your ear.  You chuckle and bat at him.  He flops down on his side next to you and plants a long, noisy kiss on your throat.  You giggle stupidly, twine an arm around his shoulders, and pull him close.

 

"Mmmf," he mumbles into your chest.

 

"What's that?  I can't hear you."

 

You feel him laugh before he slurps the nearest skin available.

 

"Gah, fine!"  You snicker and let him up.

 

"How you feel, brother?"

 

"Pretty motherfuckin' good," you say.

 

He beams.  "Like the way that hits my hear ducts."  His hand slides down your chest to your abdomen.  He runs a finger down your bulge, and you tighten in several places at once, so quickly you wince and grab his hand.

 

You set it back on your chest.  "Wait...  Gimme a minute..."

 

He pats you soothingly.  "Sorry, brother."

 

"Don't apologize.  We've just discovered the best way in the multiverse to start a night."

 

"Can't contradict that," he says.

 

"Mmm."  You let your head fall to the side and squeeze his hand.  He's warm beside you, breathing gradually slowing.  Your body hums, nerves still pinging, the weight of his material a pleasing pressure in your sac.  Your nook twitches as you think of it.  Gamzee's genetic material sitting inside you, thoroughly combining with yours.  You touch his cheek and kiss him.  "Maybe I should just hang onto your material for the night."

 

Gamzee's cheeks turn dark purple.  You wonder if he's heard that rumor about weighting your odds in the slurry.  "Not, uh..." he swallows.  "Not really up and necessitated, yet, brother."  He has.

 

"No," you agree, with a surprisingly strong twinge of regret.  You smirk.  "This'd just be practice."

 

Gamzee closes his eyes with a groan.  "Daaamn, best friend."  He hums softly when you kiss him.  "Gonna get me goin' again, and we ain't even got you all the way unwound."

 

The thought of spending the whole night here pailing and recovering is more appealing than it probably should be.  You sigh.  "I guess it wouldn't be practical."  You look at the ceiling and scroll through your sylladex.  "I forgot to captchalogue another pail.  Do you have one?"

 

Gamzee's eyes glaze over for a moment, then he shakes his head.  "Can't spy on one."

 

You look down at your abdomen, then up at the door to the ablutionblock.  Rising onto one elbow shifts the fluid inside you and you suck in a breath through your teeth.  "Give me a hand up."

 

Gamzee starts to reach for you, then pulls his arms back and rises into a squat to offer you his hands.  You put both of yours in his and you stand together, slowly.  A trickle runs down your thigh, but that's all.  Your material sac settles, heavy in your abdomen.  You take a step forward.  The weight shifts, you feel the tightness against the muscle holding it all in.  You tug on Gamzee's arm.  "Ablutions," you say.

 

Once you're safely in the trap, however, your material sac seems no more willing to release.  An abdominal massage is both fruitless and somewhat painful.

 

"There's your problem, brother," Gamzee says, pointing at your bulge.  You frown at him.  He nods at the corner of the trap.  "Get a perch on.  Promised I'd charm that motherfucker right the fuck to sleep."

 

"I don't think that's..." you begin.  Gamzee tilts his head to the side, looks contemplatively down your body.  You narrow your eyes.  You don't _think_ he's doing it on purpose, but...  You shrug and slide up to sit on the edge of the trap, back against the corner of the block.  "Okay."  Gamzee's legs fold smoothly, bringing his head level with your lap.  "Wait, what are you doing?"

 

He braces one hand against the tile and leans in, takes your bulge in the other.  "Like I done said."

 

"Yeah, but—"  He sticks out his long, tapered tongue, and drags it lingeringly up the side of your bulge.  You suck in your breath and clutch at the rim.  "Shit."

 

"Mmm."  He lifts your bulge and licks a stripe up the underside.  You whine.

 

"W-watch your teeth down there."

 

"Got 'em all tucked away proper," he murmurs, lips moving across your skin.

 

He's slow and thorough, covering you with the cool, silken touch of his tongue until your bulge is thrashing in his grip.

 

"Nh, Gamzee, stop."  He looks up over your bulge, which glistens with his saliva, and you nearly lose it.  "Get up," you gasp.  He unfolds and you half-climb him to get to your feet, cling on.

 

The floor of the trap fills with red, splashing up the sides, then flowing past your feet.  When your bulge finally relaxes, so does the entrance of your material sac, and you shudder as the warm liquid rushes out of you, painting the tile purple.  Gamzee strokes your back, holding you as the tremors subside.

 

"Right," you say, when the fog clears.  "Uh...  What... were we doing?"

 

He chuckles.  "Ablutions, brother."

 

* * *

 

Behind your hive, where the grass cedes to sand, but too far up for the waves to reach at high tide, you have a cache of firewood.  You don't need it often, so most of it you've harvested from fallen branches when you're out hunting or gathering (or on the not entirely infrequent occasions when something massive lumbers through the jungle and flattens a strip of it).  You dump it out back to dry, and by now there's a decent pile.

 

Wilderness survival wasn't a required or popular schoolfeed on Alternia.  Even the fleet's lowest priority exploration missions were equipped with technology that made skills like skinning a beast or hand-starting a fire superfluous.  You took it because romantic wanderers in the ancient forests and mountains featured prominently in an entire subgenre of your favorite books.  And maybe also because, while part of you envisioned a heroic last stand against the drones when the time came, the other half thought mountain wandering, romantic or otherwise, sounded better than decapitation.  At any rate, you owned that schoolfeed.

 

You hunt up four rocks, each roughly a foot tall, to make a rectangle, and have a good blaze going between them by the time Gamzee trots around the side of the hive.  He holds the freshly alchemized griddle, which is taller than you, across his chest, and keeps running into wind resistance.  "Sideways," you call.  "Turn it sideways!"

 

He pauses and cocks his head, then rotates the griddle lengthways like a shield so it blocks all but his shins and hands from view.  You sigh and move out of his path as he makes his unwieldy way towards you.  You nip behind him and grab the back of his shirt to stop him waltzing straight into the fire.  "Here."  You take the griddle from him and set the end in the sand.  "Did it need to be this big?"

 

"I think so.  Eggs get a wicked spread on once you crack 'em.  An' I can use it for meat additional, next time you get to threshin' wild creatures."  He surveys your handiwork and claps his hands.  "Sweet setup, best friend.  Should fit perfect."  He takes the top end of the griddle and you lower it onto the stones.  It doesn't sit evenly, but Gamzee deems it an acceptable tilt.

 

He hunkers down in the sand and decaptchalogues a stack of sliced bread and one of the monster eggs.  The latter he sets carefully aside, the former he lines up along the short ends of the griddle.  "Gotta let it hot on up."

 

You plunk down near him.  It's cool out, and the warmth of the fire feels good against your front.  Gamzee watches the metal surface attentively, every so often passing his palm just above it.  

 

Gingerly, Gamzee lifts a piece of bread, then flips it, top side golden brown, and declares the griddle ready.  You shuffle around to the opposite side and use your claws to flip each piece.

 

"All-motherfuckin'-right," says Gamzee.  He produces a bottle of oil with a flourish.  The sharp hiss when the oil hits the griddle makes you twitch back.  He sets the bottle aside and kneels up with the egg cradled in both hands.

 

You wrinkle your brow at him, and the griddle, which is hot enough that your fingertips feel tender just from coming close, and at least four feet across.  "Don't fry your arms."

 

He blinks down at his hands and frowns.  He looks back and forth between his cooking surface and the egg.  "If I launch it standing, motherfucker's gonna splash every whichplace...  Can't just crack it on the edge, or it'll get a slide on straight at the ground."

 

"You could hold me over the griddle and let me crack it," you say.

 

He looks horrified.  "You'd grill up like a grubkebab."

 

"I wasn't serious," you snort.

 

"You wanna get a grasp on my shirt and tilt me up over?"

 

"How is that better?"

 

"I ain't as like to combust."

 

"Denied," you say.  "What if we each kneel on one side, you crack it, lean over, I'll grab the other end of the shell, and we both lean back as fast as we can?"

 

"You got a diabolical pan for plans, brother," Gamzee says.  "Let's execute this motherfucker."

 

You get stationed on the other side, halfway between squatting and standing to match Gamzee's height.

 

The eggshell is tougher than he expects and doesn't crack on his first, careful knock against the edge, or the second, more forceful one.  On the third, he brings it down hard, to a sound like a nutrition plateau shattering, and deep cracks shoot across its surface.  Gamzee grimaces and shoves it towards you.  "Latch on quick!"

 

The heat sinks through your skin almost instantly as you lean forward.  You fumble for a grip on the grainy surface of the shell; your fingers punch through the spreading spiderweb of cracks and you hook them, lean back.  Gamzee rocks back and the shell actually creaks as it splits.  The liquid inside begins to pour out and you land on your ass in the sand.  A golden dome of yolk lands pretty squarely at the center of the griddle, splashing clear albumen hissing across the surface.  Gamzee sits heavily on his heels, empty shell balanced in his hands.  

 

"Eugh."  You wipe your fingers in the sand till they're slime-free.  

 

Gamzee surveys the egg critically.  It's stopped spreading, albumen stretched a good four feet wide, just a little spilling off into glistening mud on his side.  "Not all up to a full success," he murmurs.  "Some of the shell infiltrated."

 

"It's thick enough, I don't think we'll swallow it by accident."

 

He folds his arms, frowning.  You come around and tug on the back of his collar until he flops onto his ass, then shuffles back.  "I know you have exacting culinary standards, but I'd rather eat some eggshell than have a baked moirail."

 

"I wasn't goin' fishin'."

 

"Sure you weren't."

 

He has the poor strategy to look abashed and pulls his lanky legs in to cross them.  You put your arms around his shoulders and kiss his cheek, getting fresh paint on your lips.  He gives a pleased hum, so you kiss his ear before dropping down next to him.

 

"Marked you up."  He cups your chin with one wide hand and rubs your lips with his thumb.

 

"'S'okay," you say.

 

He grins.  "If you're gettin' to like it, I can paint you up ferocious."

 

"No, secondhand idiocy will be quite enough, thank you."

 

"I'll dose you regular."

 

"You've never failed me before."

 

The aroma of cooking egg tugs at your meal sac and makes your mouth water.  A yellow skin forms over the yolk.  The albumen turns white and rises off the griddle, turning crispy and brown at the edges.  Gamzee passes you a nutrition plateau and starts picking the toast off the heat, stacks it on the plateau.

 

"Right," he announces.  "Now we gotta snuff these sick fires."

 

He overflows out of his cross-legged position, hands hitting the sand already moving.  Planting his feet, he tumbles around the corner of the griddle without bothering to stand, like the most ungainly stalkbeast you can imagine—that is, until he digs the heels of his palms into the sand, raises his ass high in the air, and starts plowing the sand forward.

 

You gawk at him.  "What are you doing?"

 

"Don't wanna full-on incinerate your breakfast, best friend."  He gets the gap between the rock supports filled and circles round to the next side.  You're too busy trying not to laugh to think of getting up to help.  When he gets back to your side, you shuffle back, holding the plateau of toast high and clear of flying sand.

 

Gamzee sits up, task accomplished, and holds his hands out as far as possible from the griddle to dust them as he surveys the egg.  You crowd back in next to him.  "Now what?"

 

He narrows his eyes thoughtfully.  "Whites want a little more time, but we can take a crack at this yolk."

 

"Hang on," you say, using his shoulder to stand.  He looks up.  You gesture at the fried egg that's nearly as tall as you.  "Did we, or did we not, need to see this?"

 

He kneels up, which brings his head almost level with yours.  He laughs.  "We had an all-out necessitation.  Never got sat at a meal what was mostly my size.  Almost a shame to be eatin' it."

 

"No, no," you say hurriedly.  "I'm starved.  We're definitely eating it."  You squint at it.  "How, though?"

 

Gamzee swipes the top piece off your stack of toast and leans forward, gingerly curving his body over the griddle.

 

"Careful," you warn.

 

He nods, stretches his arm out, and dents the yellow skin of the yolk with the toast.  The corner of his mouth flickers at the unexpected resistance, then he thrusts it down.  A bright orange bubble rises from the puncture and slides down the dome.  He dips the toast until it's thoroughly coated, then pulls it back, dripping gold everywhere.

 

" _Gamzee_..."  You fumble for another piece of bread and try to get that under his.  You catch a couple globs with it, but more spatter the sand and his pants.

 

"Brutal catch, brother," Gamzee congratulates you.  He plucks that piece from your fingers and drops the gooey one on your stack.  "Get your tastefronds up under that."

 

You give up on cleanliness and try it.  It tastes pretty much how you remember cluckbeast eggs tasting, and only a little different, less tangy, than the little blue eggs you've gotten used to here.  You are, however, ravenous, and as a result it hits your palate like the nectar of the troll dryads of the Forest of Wailing Despair (they mutilated any troll who trespassed on their territory, but they laid a legendary table).  You flash your moirail a thumbs-up and he leans to prepare the next one.

 

On your third slice, you realize Gamzee hasn't had any yet.  You tug him down beside you and decaptchalogue a knife to slice off a square of the white, at the edge, where it looks deliciously crisp.  You balance that on the toast and dunk the whole in yolk before holding it out to him, other hand poised to catch the drips.  He pushes his lips out, eyes sliding away.  "You got chewed up for this," you say, pushing it forward.  "Come on."  He starts to say something; you interrupt.  "Just open your face gash."

 

He blinks.  "Uhh..."  You raise your eyebrows at him.  Then he lets you feed him the egg.

 

He doesn't protest much as you split the loaf and as much of the egg as you can manage.  When the bread is gone you plant your sticky hands in the sand behind you and lean back.  Gamzee mirrors you.  "Better?" he asks.

 

You crook a finger at him and swipe a yellow blob from his cheek when he leans in.  "Yeah," you say.

 

More than half of the egg remains on the cooled griddle.  "Make good sandwiches," Gamzee murmurs to himself.  He catches you frowning at his stomach, where the slack fabric of his stained shirt clings.  "Best friend?"

 

You shake your head.  "I'm gonna stay out here, get some exercise."

 

"You haven't had enough?" he asks.

 

You smile wryly.  "It's a start, but I've been lying around letting you feed me for nights.  I'm gonna go soft."

 

"You couldn't ever," he says, and shrugs.  "Just don't be too strict at yourself."  He captchalogues the dirty flatware and produces a colorful, round-edged plastic box to store the leftovers.

 

You rise and stretch, reaching for the sky.  "Don't bother with the griddle, okay?  When I get back, the fire'll be completely dead, and I'll help you."

 

"Okay."

 

You stretch cursorily, watching him scrape up the egg and carefully arrange the pieces in the box, then take off running.  

 

You normally start slower, but your muscles respond to the first few paces by limbering, pushing you off harder.  The grainy give of sand beneath your feet sends pleasing tension through your core.  The salt air still smells like danger, probably still means danger, though as yet unproven, but feels fresh and invigorating in your lungs, against your face.  You're halfway down the inner curve of the inlet before you glance back over your shoulder.  Gamzee has already disappeared inside.  The windows cast warm rectangles over the beach.

 

You run all the way up the southern arm of the cove and down the other side.  Your legs feel powerful, seem to propel you further than usual with each step.  Your heartbeat is strong but steady in your chest and you feel like you could go further; this is where you usually turn around, but you feel strong enough to reach the horizon and something in you wants to.  Your pulse quickens as you squint at that distant line.  You slow down and turn, sprint back towards the hive.

 

By the time you pass the griddle, your air sacs are starting to protest, the beginnings of a stitch forming between them.  You slow down too abruptly, take a last few thudding strides, and skid to a halt a few yards beyond your hive, kicking up dry and damp sand.

 

You lean heavily on your knees, resist the urge to drop to the sand just in case Gamzee's near one of the side windows.  Your blood sings through you, energy plucking at your tired muscles.  You leave your shoes in the indent you made, toe off your socks, and pad down to the waterline.

 

Low tide.  Froth slips silently up the dark sand to bubble around your toes.  Loitering by the water is dangerous; any land dweller knows that.  Gamzee got his first combat experience long before you waiting for his lusus to come in with the tide.  The troll threat from this direction doesn't really exist, anymore, but neither of you is a strong swimmer, and though you haven't yet seen anything carnivorous crawl up the beach, that doesn't mean nothing will.

 

You breathe the sea air deep and fall into a wide stance.  You equip your sickle, let the smooth handle settle in your grip.  You move.

 

The blade catches moonlight, draws a glowing path through the air.  Grainy mud pushes through your toes as you move, shifting your weight to counterbalance your strikes, but putting no force behind them yet, just feeling the forms.

 

You sneer at yourself.  These exercises are bullshit.  Dreamed up by other children who had no clue what they were doing, propagated over the Net.  The videos you honed in on were all made by this one blueblood.  His angular face is still clear in your memory, the shark teeth he bared in concentration, the short, tightly curled hair.  He was scrawny, but he moved like a strikefowl.  His techniques looked so crisp, so elegant and deadly, you let yourself believe he must have access to something the rest of you didn't.  Proper combat schoolfeeds weren't accessible till you had proven yourself by surviving to your eighth sweep without them, but you wouldn't find that out until Alternia was gone.

 

The blueblood's techniques were mostly useless in actual combat, more flash than substance.  The best you can say for them is they do provide a decent workout.  You heard he was culled a sweep before you entered the game.  Given these fighting forms, you're not surprised.  You honed your own in action, adapted what you'd gleaned from videos and theory and flailing in your respiteblock, and learned from what kept your hide intact and what didn't.

 

The muscle memory from sweeps of mimicking that dead child stayed with you, though.  The ornamental sweeps and flourishes are right here in your arms and legs whenever you might want them; you're in more danger of forgetting the techniques that _work._

 

You force yourself out of the old patterns into the Sgrub battles.  You picture imps rising out of the surf, dance through the foam to cut them down.  You recall the sting of failure hidden carefully under your clothes.  Splashing through red blood, not water.

 

Your heightened pulse drives you to move faster, swing as if there really were flesh and bone to sunder, and the compensation to keep your balance burns through your muscles, feeds the adrenaline that's making you feel powerful, like you can sense everything around you with razor clarity, like you could cleave atoms with your blade.

 

You practice till your shoulder aches, then switch hands, exhaust that arm, too.  Your quads burn, your abdomen trembles by the time you give up, let your last strike pull you through a full circle, twirl in the wet sand, kicking up spray, an idiot in the light of a single alien moon, a universe away from his doomed birthplace, slashing at phantoms.

 

There's no blood here.  Only black waves with shining rosy crests.  There are no imps.  No denizens.  No beasts, for the moment.  No sea trolls.  No land dwellers.

 

You turn back to your hive.  The carpenter drones built it to withstand every weather condition you can reasonably expect.  None of the truly dangerous fauna have ventured this far out of the wilds.

 

But your fingers are loath to leave their smooth grooves in the wooden hilt of your sickle.  Your nerves twinge, speaking of an attack yet to repel, urging you to stand and fight.  It's an effort to stow your weapon.

 

Your legs try to cramp when you crouch to retrieve your shoes.  The trail you leave up the beach meanders, but if it's still there later, Gamzee won't mention it.  You wipe the sand from your feet on the grass and pad through your lawnring.

 

Faint light leaks down the stairs, but there's none burning on the first floor.  You flip the lights on briefly at the front door just to guide yourself, and follow a mostly unimpeded path past the disused auxiliary leisureblock to the nutritionblock.  It was a combination of Gamzee's and John's ideas to put it there—apparently in human hives, you always have a welcoming reception block right near the entrance, for potential visitors who _don't_ want to cull you.  So far all yours has done is collect dust.  The two of you have made the upstairs leisureblock and rumpusblock thoroughly your own, but haven't found much use for this one.  You lean over the sink to slurp from the faucet, then follow the light down the hall to the stairs.

 

The second floor is dark except for a single lamp in the leisureblock.  You duck through your respiteblock into the ablutionblock to rinse your feet.  You ought to perform ablutions, but your muscles are still pleasantly warm and there's an agitation in your stomach that doesn't want you to stop moving, yet.

 

You give your feet a cursory swipe with a towel and trot out, jog up the stairs.

 

Maybe Gamzee decided to take a nap.  He wouldn't have left without telling you, after last night, but it's quiet.  It's quiet, and, now that you think of it, it has been since you returned.  There haven't been the looped recordings of the Alternian slam poets you never liked but know most of by heart, now.  There hasn't been Gamzee rapping, absently under his breath when he concentrates, or at the top of his lungs when he gets it into his skull to clean.  There hasn't been the reverberation of flung open doors as he sweeps through the hive, the thump as he hurls himself onto a sofa, the clatter when he decides he wants a surface clear and doesn't bother putting anything away.  None of that.  As much as you gripe about wanting peace and order, it isn't right.

 

The third floor blazes with light.  Everything's on, including fixtures of which you have no recollection.  It makes even you squint, and Gamzee's vision is sharper than yours.  You stop in the rumpusblock and tilt your head, trying to hear which block he's in.  It's still unnaturally quiet.  You wander towards his respiteblock with your ears pricked, but when you get to the open door, it's empty.

 

On the opposite side of the rumpusblock, another hallway leads to a round-walled, large-windowed block overlooking the beach.  The noiseblock, as you've dubbed it, where Gamzee has been slowly amassing a collection of sound equipment, as grist rations allow, with the odd gift from a visiting human.  The door at the far end of the hall is open, and you see a shadow cross it.

 

He has his back to you when you reach the door, hunkered down by a corner cabinet.  He rises slowly, holding something in both arms.  You can't say why, but instead of announcing yourself, you step back against the wall when he turns.  He doesn't notice you, focused on what turns out to be a cardboard box.  His left arm is under it, right curved around the side.  Each foot falls slowly, an almost absurd care given to the front one landing heel first, slowly curving against the floor, the back foot not lifting off, but rolling up.  You watch, but he doesn't pick up speed.  A tightrope walker would move more boldly.

 

It must be one of his turntables in there—No, there they both are, against the other wall, where he's headed.  Maybe the vinyl records he drools over, his few surviving Alternian originals and some of his favorites from Earth.  He completes his glacial journey and lowers the box gingerly to the floor.  You lean in the doorway behind him.

 

He lifts out a book and slides it very deliberately onto the shelving unit nearest the turntables.  And another.  Then more.  You strain to see which they are and recognize a few covers.   _The Big Fake Book of West Alternian Folk Ballads_.  You happen to know he doesn't like a single song in there. _Slam Poetry for Faithless Heretics._ Useless and "kinda squeezes out your joy sponge," you believe were his words.  He takes out two Earth books you thought you remembered lobbing at Dave's head along with threats of messy retribution, and pauses.  You can't see his face, just that his right arm tenses.  After a long moment, he slots them into place on the shelf, and goes on.  You haven't caught him reading much of anything in sweeps.  Much less these books.  You've seen him _juggle_ some of them.  Poorly.

 

When the last book is shelved, Gamzee folds the box with the same measured movements, as if it's novel and delicate work, running firm fingers along each crease to keep it in place.  He slides the folded cardboard behind the shelves, and sits back on his heels with an audible sigh.  His shoulders relax, arms slack at his sides.

 

You back down the hall, unconsciously mirroring the way he walked, toe rolling to heel, silent, until you reach the rumpusblock and round the corner.  You lean your head back against the wall and let out a long breath.

 

Expletives fail you.  You stand still and deflate, feel the warmth of your workout leave you.  Then you backtrack quietly to the stairs and halfway down them.  You stomp back up, putting as much weight as you can on each step, and call out for him at the top.

 

"In the noiseblock, best friend!"

 

He's on the other side of the block, frowning at another shelving unit and the unwieldy stacks of books and CDs around it.  "Heyyy," he greets you.  "You kinda look like the purrbeast dragged you down the beach before she let you loose."  You walk over and slip under his arm, wrap both of yours around him and mould yourself to his side.  He sets one large hand between your horns.  "Shouldn't roll too rough, brother," he says.  "You wanna lay into a cold one?"

 

You shake your head.  "What're you doing?"

 

He sighs.  "Lookin' for a beat I wanna sample.  Thought it was up in one a these tomes, but I can't put claw to it.  You said when a brother can't locate his shit, it's time to get cleanly, so I tried some sorting, but... only the motherfuckers I don't like are tryin' to get found."  He strokes your hair absently.  "Maybe I got my remember on backways.  Coulda been a record...  Thought I had it writ up, though..."

 

You press your face into his shirt.

 

"Best friend?"  You squeeze your eyes shut and try not to hold him as hard as you want to.  "Hey," Gamzee says softly.  His arm curls around your shoulders.  His other hand touches your cheek, tries to lift your chin, but you keep your head down.  "Brother?  You okay?"

 

Your teeth dig hard into your lip.  You nod, but you can't trust yourself to speak.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta does not recommend reading this chapter on an empty stomach.

  
Where the hell is the salt?

  
Every cupboard in the nutritionblock is filled with tin canisters with colored labels that convey less than no meaning. You shake the ones with holes in the lids, open the ones without, and it's dried leaves, dried leaves, crushed green dried leaves. But salt? The one seasoning so basic even _you_ use it? What would _that_ be doing in a nutritionblock?

  
You step out into the hallway and yell up the stairs for Gamzee.

  
There are far too many stairs in the way, and you're sweating by the time you reach the top, cursing your lousy design sense.

  
The pile has been cleared from the rumpusblock. So has almost everything else. The book and game shelves are empty, the table is free of crumbs, and the chairs are set around the latter at precise right angles, equidistant from the edge. Not so much as a stray Old Bones tile interrupts the unbroken plane of the floor. The couch and armchairs look like they were just alchemized, not a stain or dent to suggest they've ever been so much as sat upon.

  
It must be a while since you last came up. You wander through the halls looking for Gamzee's respiteblock but keep winding up in the ablutionblock, or empty blocks you can't place. The carpenter drones should have culled you on the spot when you fed them your blueprints.

  
At last, you give up and find yourself back in the nutritionblock, uneasy and hoarse from calling his name. You run the faucet and can't manage to drink from it without dousing yourself; you stand up wet and still thirsty.

  
A box sits on the table in front of you.

  
Oblong, wooden, solid. The sight of it gives you a heavy, sick feeling in the pit of your stomach, a creeping nausea in your protein chute. The water dripping down your neck runs chill down your spine. 

  
You step forward.

  
_No._

  
The hive around you recoils, leaving a gradually widening void on every side.

  
_I don't want to._

  
Your organ cage squeezes, gradually building pressure in your chest till you're laboring for each breath and every heartbeat is painful. Still your legs bear you forward and your hands reach through air that drags at your arms.

  
_No. No, no._

  
The smooth varnish is warm under your fingertips. They slide up the sides, find the seam of the lid. It slides up noiselessly between your palms.

  
_Oh._

  
_Oh._

  
It feels like a hole opening at the back of your organ cage. The pressure eases as everything in you drains away, leaving you cold, hollow.

  
You remember.

  
_Gamzee._

  
  
* * *

  


  
"...hurts... Don't..." 

  
Your face is buried in cloth and body warmth, your arms locked tight around a combination of softness and sharp angles. A whimper above your head brings your eyes open. The troll you're crushing to you shifts in your arms, pulling away.

  
You open your arms and fling yourself backwards, land on your ass on the floor staring up at Gamzee, who's still sprawled in the cushion pile. Your body reverberates with the force of your heartbeat. "Gamzee," you say, "Gamzee I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I—"

  
He's asleep. The pain lines smooth from between his brows and he settles, reaching for a snuggleplane and pulling a cushion onto his shoulder instead.

  
You draw breath like a drowning victim. Half of you is shocked to see him, the memory of the dream is so vivid. The other half is searching his sleeping form wildly for blood, because he's injured and you hurt him, you hurt him, what if he's bleeding to death right now and you did it, you bastard, you killed your moirail, and, shit, you're freaking out, stop it, stop it.

  
But telling yourself to stop only makes you start to hyperventilate, so you scuttle backwards until you hit a wall, claw your way up it, and stumble out of Gamzee's respiteblock into the rumpusblock.

  
It looks as it should, and the stairs are in the requisite location and number, which helps a little, but still leaves you jumpy as you enter the nutritionblock.

  
There's nothing out of place on the table. You throw open a few cupboards and get a nasty jolt from the spice canisters, but they're nothing like as uniform as they were in your dream.

  
Coffee. You need coffee.

  
It's been a while since you made it yourself. There's orange showing at the edges of the shutters; you're never up this early. You have to search for the filters, which heightens your agitation, but you know where the coffee is. Your hands shake as you measure it out, spilling on the counter, hissing curses. Eventually you get the machine set and install yourself at the table to wait.

  
You run your fingers into your hair and slump over the table. The images and impressions of the dream keep returning, and it's hard not to run back upstairs and check that Gamzee's still there and breathing.

  
Motionlessness makes thought too easy. You slide out of your chair and shift from one foot to the other in front of the coffee maker while it bubbles and spits. As soon as it finishes, you yank out the pot.

  
You nearly drop it when the stairs creak, and swallow a scream. Gamzee rounds the corner into the nutritionblock with both eyes closed, scrubbing at one with the heel of his hand. His hair is a nibblevermin's nest, matted around his horns, and the collar of the massive shirt he's wearing solo as sleepwear is so far down his shoulder it's making for his biceps. He blinks at you. You try to look casual with the coffeepot as your heart attempts to jackhammer its way out of your chest.

  
He rubs bleary, purple-rimmed eyes. "Best friend?"

  
"Who the fuck else would it be?" You fumble behind you for your beverage cylinder and narrowly avoid knocking it off the counter.

  
"Thought I might be dreamwalkin'," he says and yawns cavernously. "Whasshudoinup?"

  
"You want coffee?"

  
He squints at the pot in your hand with a furrowed brow for a long moment. "Yeah, bro. That ain't gonna get you back down, though."

  
You turn back to the cupboard for a second beverage cylinder and pour one for each of you. No spills. Good. You bring them over to the table. "You wander around pantsless before I get up?"

  
Gamzee looks down at his bare legs, the sockless feet a little too purple at the toes. "Uhhh... Sometimes?" His fingers brush yours as he takes his coffee. Your throat tightens. "Just wondered where you were at."

  
You sip instead of replying, and after a moment, he mimics you. You feel his eyes on you.

  
"You, uh..." Gamzee yawns again and sets down his beverage cylinder with a muted click. "Wanna break open that fast?"

  
"Sure," you say, brightening a little. "I mean, yes, thanks."

  
He smiles muzzily and moves past you to the thermal hull. "What's your pleasure, palebrother? I can toast you up a egg sandwich, or sizzle some grubcakes... If you don't feel an urgency, I could whip you out a quiche..."

  
"It's so early," you say. "Sandwich."

  
He grins over his shoulder. "Ain't no trouble if you want quiche."

  
You blush. "Maybe later."

  
"Okay, sandwiches comin' atcha." 

  
Shortly, you're each sitting in front of a warm sandwich—into which Gamzee has secreted greens with all his native subtlety. Nothing he makes, even simple things, is less than delicious, vegetables notwithstanding. You're halfway through your sandwich before you glance at his plateau and see he's only nibbled the corner off his.

  
You set yours down and wipe your hands. Gamzee looks at you over his beverage cylinder, still foggy. "What's up, brother?"

  
"Aren't you hungry?"

  
"Huh?" He looks at his plateau, then down at himself, and slowly pats his stomach. "Nah, I guess not. Thought I would be."

  
You stand.

  
"You done already?" Gamzee asks.

  
You nod. "I'm gonna," you mutter, moving away, "go for a run."

  
"Now?"

  
"Yeah."

  
"It's still light out, best friend!" he calls as you open the door. "Take a cloak!"

  
"Got one in my sylladex!" you say, already pulling it shut behind you. "I'll be back soon!"

  
The sun is lowering behind the trees in the west and your lawnring is surreal in its light, the colors too red, too bright, the edges of flowerbeds and fruit not where you expect them. You squint, eyes stinging, fight the edge of worry in Gamzee's voice out of your head. You push away from the door and jog down the path, skirt the plantings, and round the corner onto the sand.

  
You point yourself north and run.

  
It's warmer than you're used to, and moisture hangs heavy in the air, giving the illusion of greater resistance. You cover several yards before you remember to breathe and gasp in a lungful. It's less comfortable in your chest, but it won't stop you.

  
Your shoes slip on the sand, knocking your gait off-kilter. You stop, growling, captchalogue them, take off again. 

  
If you don't feel like threshing a path through the long grass, or running the risk of attack by low-hanging stranglebeasts from above (or marauding plantlife from below), the only logical place to run is the beach. It's good for your bonestem, a better workout, bluh bluh, but it has you streaming curses in your head for a good quarter mile until you finally hit a decent rhythm with your feet touching down, finding purchase, pushing off, and can put on some speed.

  
Your muscles are achy from the night before, but warm quickly as you find your pace. The sun, sinking rapidly into the jungle, makes your skin prickle and your eyes water. 

  
It won't bake you quite the way the Alternian sun would, but Alternians have been nocturnal for too many millennia to be equipped for any but the most incidental UV rays. Looking straight at the sun still means blindness, being out in full daylight without sunglasses will cause serious retinal damage, and in your first sweep here, curious and stupidly optimistic, you got sunburn that nearly killed you (Gamzee was beside himself; it was not a good time).

  
You decaptchalogue your sun cloak. It whips out behind you, thick fabric catching the wind, knocking you towards the water. You wrest it from the wind resistance and swing it around your shoulders. Without stopping, you pull up the hood to shade your eyes, and get it fastened around your horns so it won't blow off. It's hot, but has a soft, comfortable lining. Dark brown, so as not to reflect much light and blind potential traveling companions, otherwise it would have been white. The cloak slows you, but the relief in your skin and eyes is worth it.

  
You go up the opposite arm of the cove from yesterday, not your usual route. At the end of that strip of land, you turn and leave your hive behind you. You run until that dwindles, too.

  
The tall grass cedes to short, spiky shrubs as the jungle beyond continues parallel to the coast. You weave to keep to the sand as the beach narrows and widens, the dark soil and grass stretching almost to the water in places.

  
As your legs start to protest, the shrubs become sparser, interrupted by lighter, drier soil that spots the land like mange, and then you're running alongside a barren stretch, not quite sand, but almost as resistant to cultivation, littered with reddish rock formations that look like they were wet clay dribbled there accidentally. You hear a piercing _caw_ and look up to see a strikefowl wheeling in the cloudless sky, black against the blue, wings outspread. You blink hard, eyes tearing against the light, and look ahead.

  
Grey cliffs rise ahead of you, jutting out into the sea, and you have to start skirting and hurdling rocks of increasing size scattered through the sand. It shifts to more pebbles and gravel as you near the shade of the cliffs, and you slow, your feet protesting despite their callused skin. Finally there are too many sharp edges to continue barefoot. You stop and pull on your shoes.

  
"Fuck," you wheeze. You kick the nearest loose rock. It flies into the water along with a shower of pebbles. "Fuck. Fuck fuck." You kick at everything that looks like it'll move, make a few strategic errors that leave your toes throbbing and your curses louder. "Shit-breathing, bucket-humping, slurry-swimming, barkbeast-sucking bulgemuffins! Fuck! Fuck!"

  
You kick and skid along the shifting surface until your toes stick to the wet sand and foam laps around your soles. You stoop for handfuls of rocks to fling into the water. Their trajectories are humiliatingly short. "FUCK!!!" you bellow at the top of your lungs. A faint echo bounces back at you from the cliffs.

  
Out in the water, what looks like maybe a hundred yards away, a dark triangle sails into view. It looks a lot like a—Yeah, that's a fin. You back rapidly up the beach, turn, clamber over the big, smooth rocks. There's one as high as your chest and as wide as you are tall right where the pebbles end and the barren soil begins; you drop behind it and listen to your pump biscuit beat on your auricular membranes for a while.

  
You slip your fingertips over the top, and slowly ease yourself up until you can squint over it. The fin is about the same distance out. It sails back and forth across your field of vision twice, then glides away towards the horizon, and eventually sinks from view. You let out your breath slowly. Jesus grubfucking Christ. Did whatever the hell that was _hear_ you all the way out there? You've met this planet's hive-length slitherbeasts, and there are cluckbeasts the size of trunkbeasts... you don't want to meet New Alternia's answer to sharks. Maybe it was further out than you thought and actually the size of a whale. Maybe it's amphibious. Maybe it fucking _flies_. If _you're_ the drooling nitwit who attracts dangerous marine life to your stretch of the beach, you're going to... well... devote substantial resources to finding sufficiently appalling vengeance to wreak on yourself. At least you're a few miles away from your hive, but for fuck's sake...

  
You stretch your arms over the sun-warmed rock and stare out bleakly at the darkening waves. The sky above the horizon turns lavender, then purple. What was that dream? What _was_ that? What the _fuck_ was in that fucking box? You didn't see. All you know is the overwhelming sense of loss that came over you when you looked inside. The feeling that Gamzee had been gone for a long time. Your fingers flex hard against unyielding stone as pain and panic bloom through your chest. It was just a dream. Just a fucked up fucking dream.

  
It is a terrifying prospect to leave your subconscious unsupervised for an entire day. Enough to make you question the decision to give up your recuperacoon. You dreamed in that, but muted, quiet dreams, nothing that lingered past the first few waking moments of the evening. Nothing like this feeling of creeping despair that's making you hot behind the eyes, making you quiver with the impression that you're losing time, you should be doing something _now_ , but you don't know what it is, and catastrophe's going to strike while you sit here floundering.

  
You breathe in and hold it. Water creeps up the pebbled beach. Drains back down. You exhale.

  
Nothing is happening right now. There's no _imminent_ disaster. Calm the fuck down.

  
Christ, you really want a hug. But if you ask for one in this condition, Gamzee will notice, and you can't let on. You are the stable moirail—multiverse have pity on Gamzee—it's you. So.

  
So.

  
Point one: Gamzee's still flipped out about growing. You should have realized before, but you'll finish self-flagellating later. It makes you sick to picture him moving through the noiseblock as if everything around him were rigged to explode, afraid to touch anything, afraid of himself.

  
You blink hard.

  
Point two: You're pretty sure Gamzee doesn't know himself what he's doing. He thinks he's just fucking peachy; the moron will sit there and cheerfully let his subconscious starve him to death if you don't cram nutrients down his protein chute. He managed to ignore hunger pangs when he was on a diet of mostly sopor; why should he pay them any pan, now?

  
Okay, fuck, fuck, why did you have to think about that? You screw your eyes shut and breathe. It takes an effort to banish the image you have of a messy-haired pupa curled up next to his recuperacoon with slime on his lips, wondering why his meal sac is cramping so hard he can't move.

  
Point three: For once in your benighted life, you're not going to handle a problem like a headlong collision with a runaway transport. Your impulse is to take him by the shoulders and throttle him until he agrees to be all right, just to rattle his demons straight out his pointy ears, but you're not a complete idiot. Clearly you have all the observational acuity of a concussed tunnelvermin, and have been thinking exclusively with your nook, but still, not a complete idiot.

  
Point four: Now fucking what?

  
You can't yell or beat this problem into submission, so what _are_ you going to do?

  
Darkness stretches across the water in a deep indigo-aubergine curtain. It eases the burning of your eyes, cools you beneath your thick cloak. 

  
You don't know how to fix this. _But:_

  
Point five: You're going to figure it out. And in the meantime, if you have to sleep-feed your moirail to keep him three-dimensional, that's what you'll do.

  
Point six: You really, _really_ want a hug. Before you can have one, you need to get your shit under control. You push yourself upright and step out from behind your protective boulder.

  
You've got this, you tell yourself. Sort of by the tail with soapy hands, but you've got it. You know what _it_ is, anyway; that's a start.

  
You peer back the way you came. You want to decaptchalogue your communicrab and at least hear his voice, but... you'll sound better if you wait. The pebbles click under your shoes as you wander further into the shadow of the cliffs. In the deepening darkness, the moon begins to shine, its satellite not yet visible. 

  
The world settles into its proper spectrum, bluer, sharper in the absence of the confounding glare, with a gentle, rosy touch at the edges. Moonlight winks at you from the shadows ahead, and you clamber up onto the low rock formations spread out across the beach, which become more frequent and closely spaced until they melt into the edges of the cliffs. You spread your arms for balance as you step across the uneven surfaces, hop the gaps.

  
Tide pools nestle among the rocks, left behind by low tide, radiant in the moonlight. You pass over them like an eclipse until movement catches your eye. A fish chases its tail around the edge of a pool, silver gleaming like a sickle blade beneath the ripples. Your eyes dart after its bright movements. Your fingers itch.

  
  
* * *

  


  
Gamzee jogs around the side of the hive, one hand holding the waist of his unaltered pants to keep it above his knees. He trips over the trailing hems and nearly pitches over. The pants drop, revealing rainbow spotted boxers that could fit both of you as he fumbles for the things he was carrying. He flattens one to his chest and swipes at the other, a tin canister, knocking it into the air. It spins, he knocks it out of its downward arc with his elbow, then butts it with his forehead. Finally he leans back and pulls his tent-like shirt out, catching the canister as it falls. 

  
You have a hard time not laughing, despite your nerves. He squats, still leaning back at an obtuse angle to balance his cargo in its makeshift sling, and retrieves the waist of his pants. He shuffles his way through the sand to the griddle and lowers himself gingerly next to you. Nestled in his shirt beside the salt canister is a wax-paper-wrapped block of butter. At least he wasn't carrying his precious glass butter coffin.

  
"You okay?" you ask wryly.

  
"Lucky I got my mad juggling skills," he says. "Phew!" He sets his burdens carefully in the sand and leans over the nutrition plateau where you've set your two cleaned fish and two more yet to be scaled. "Wooow..." he murmurs. "Hold it up so I can get a peek on."

  
You lift your hands. You have the third fish beheaded and scaled. Under his gaze, you gut it with your knife, flicking the entrails onto the pile you've made in the sand, then go about extracting the spine. You toss that aside and lay down the cleaned pink flesh beside the first two.

  
"You caught those?"

  
"Mmhmm," you murmur, starting on the next. Gamzee's eyes follow your fingers, his expression rapt.

  
"How'd you get on that?"

  
"Didn't have to do much. They were trapped in the tide pools, up north a bit." He frowns, you point, and he says, "Ohhh." You finish the scaling and slit the fish open. "Basically just had to scoop 'em out and captchalogue 'em." You glance up, then focus down again, cheeks heating. "What?"

  
"You're so motherfuckin' old school, brother. How in the fuck did you get so badass?"

  
"Shut up," you grumble. "This is really basic shit if you take the right schoolfeeds."

  
"Uh-huuuuh," he says.

  
He watches, apparently fascinated, as you finish prepping the remaining fish. It's a skill you haven't used much at all, and not since the game, but it came back to you easily. It's not that different from cleaning mammal carcasses, after all. Gamzee's always impressed when you do that, too, despite the fact that he's been seeing it demonstrated for sweeps. He's happy to cook meat, but generally won't hunt, and hasn't shown any desire to learn the cleaning process. It leaves you some way to be nutritionally useful to the hivehold.

  
As you set down the last fish, a thermos appears in front of your face. You look at Gamzee. "Been out running under the heat," he says.

  
"I drank while I was out," you lie, but take it from him, and end up draining it before you hand it back. "Thanks."

  
He smiles. The fire is burning well under the griddle. "Want me to fry these motherfuckers up?"

  
"No, I got it," you say. "I mean, it's not gonna be fancy, but—"

  
"That's cool!" He sits on his hands and rolls back. "I ain't all that enlightened of the nutritional arts where the ingredients be gilled."

  
"Really? Living next to the ocean like that?"

  
"Hangin' around the waves trying to sling a hook woulda fetched me up into it with the sea dwellers. Had enough a that noise already."

  
"Fuck, yeah, of course..." Oh, Christ, no, don't picture it, _don't_. You swallow. "I got lake fish with my lusus a couple times. He caught them. I just prepped them... you know, the wilderness schoolfeed. So, I guess this'll be something new."

  
He nods and just watches you. It's strange how intent he is. You think he might be holding his breath, and listen hard as you lean to drop a pat of butter on the griddle, but then you do hear him, and relax a little. Liquid butter froths up around the pat. You swirl it around, hissing, with your knife, to draw a circle. The pat disappears before the circle is large enough, and you add another.

  
Spices of some kind probably would be better, but damned if you know which to use, so you just salt each fish before laying it on the greased griddle. You knead the fine sand in front of you to clean your hands, rub it over your knuckles. When you sit back, your side rubs up against Gamzee's. He leans against you. "What now?"

  
"Won't take long," you say. "They're not that big, and they're fresh, so we don't have to cook the shit out of them." In your landlocked neighborhood, the fish you could occasionally buy had been shipped a long way, and were a digestive gamble despite the inflated price. Those lake expeditions had provided your only experience with the fresh variety. Since your lusus had to twist your arm to get you to cook in the first place, fish hadn't been a frequent menu item in your hive. "What?" you ask, when Gamzee touches your cheek, then your forehead. "What are you doing?"

  
"Nothing."

  
"Quit it."

  
He frowns at you, then produces a thermos.

  
"I finished—" It's a second one, also full. With a sigh, you take it. Once the water touches your lips, you realize you are still a little dry. Gamzee flops down in the sand and curls around your back, knees folded against your right leg, torso tucked against your left. "You okay, there?" He nods, watches you expectantly until you set down the empty thermos. He curls one arm around your thigh and hugs it lightly. He stays there until the fish are cooked to your satisfaction. You slide them onto the plateau and slice into one. The flesh is tender, and the aroma makes your meal sac contract, so you've probably done it more or less right.

  
You slice up a few chunks, releasing fragrant steam. The flesh is hot; you lift one piece gingerly between your claws and blow the steam away. "Can you swallow in that position, or will you choke to death?" you ask.

  
"Uh?" Gamzee looks at your fingers, then at you. He raises the hand not wrapped around your leg. You wave it away.

  
"Just open your mouth."

  
To one side of his securely painted cheek, the color rises in his ear.

  
"What?" you demand, your face heating in turn. "What the fuck are you blushing for?"

  
"Nothin'," Gamzee says, but the tips of his ears flush darker as your hand approaches, until it looks almost painful. He opens his lips, just a little.

  
"Wider, dumbass."

  
He obeys, and you pop the fish in. The fuck is wrong with him? Your pump biscuit seems to think you're still running. "How is it?" you ask. "Awful?"

  
"'S'like eatin' a cloud," he mumbles around the mouthful. "'S'all soft."

  
You pluck up another piece. "I guess the fish haven't had time to bulk up the way the land beasts have. Now don't fucking fight me—" You look back and Gamzee's eyes are squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in a way that says he's trying not to do it. His ear is so dark that his face must be entirely purple, and the arm around your leg is tense, fingertips pressing into the underside of your thigh, but he does have his mouth open, waiting for the next bite. You let out a breath that is only saved from being a moan by your major-motion-picture-worthy self-control. The idiot looks like he's steeling himself to have a fang extracted. Thank everything his eyes are closed; if your expression looks even a tenth as stupid as it feels, even your moirail would never respect you again. You make like you're blowing on the next piece to get your breathing under control, then feed it to him.

  
The wildlife feed on Alternia never held much fascination for you; there was usually a romcom to be found if you were at loose ends and feeling lazy, or failing that, sitcom reruns, or a documentary on a heroic flaysquad. Sometimes, though, when you were stuck on the couch recuperating from some plague you'd managed to contract or stupidity-induced injury, you'd flip past and let it stay on that feed, hoping to catch a stripebeast or a spotted fleetbeast messily taking down a herd of hooved preybeasts. 

  
And then, occasionally, you'd be too feverish or lethargic to change feeds when something incredibly disappointing showed instead, like footage of a strikefowl feeding her young. The image is vivid in your mind, of the hatchlings, naked and almost translucent, skeletal necks straining upward, their eyes sealed shut, blind, but mouths wide open. Your hand shakes. Gamzee tilts his chin up when you stroke his cheek and you run your fingers into his hair.

  
You tense as you bring each morsel to his lips, but he offers no resistance. Finally, he hugs your leg and turns his face away, pressing his forehead to your thigh. "Mmm," he murmurs. "You cook like you carved up Shangri-La, brother."

  
Two fish remain on the plateau; he's eaten three without a peep of protest. You stroke his hair and he stretches his neck to press against your palm. "I think your tastefronds are broken."

  
"Nuh-uh." He sets up a contented purr and curls tightly around you. His belly actually feels warm, pressed up against your ass, and just a little round.

  
You gnaw on your lip until your throat loosens. "Full?" you ask.

  
"Like a music box with notes, best friend." He gives your leg a little squeeze. With him warming your back, and the guttering fire your front, you eat the last two fish.

  
  
* * *

  


  
The New Alternian Internet is mostly a bunch of shit the twelve of you happened to have saved on your various devices when your universe went _foom_. Some of it's edifying—for example, your movie and ebook collection—but most of it is embarrassing. The heap of imperial propaganda that made the journey might be good for historical record, but you kind of wish it had been lost, anyway. There are documentaries you stood to attention for as a pupa in your leisureblock, and the memory makes you vaguely ill. It's uncomfortable to realize how differently you and your past self actually think. 

  
Then there's the new content, which is whatever your teammates and Rose decide to share. Some of you have uploaded little to nothing, some volumes. Nepeta and Rose share a lot of their fiction, which you keep stealthily on top of. Equius shares schematics for machines most of the rest of you are too lazy or inept to build. Sollux has volumes up there about how not to abuse the nascent system of servers. There's geodata from most of you, a lengthy catalogue from Tavros of the fauna he's encountered (you've shared quite a bit on how to kill said fauna), and various people's insights on the flora. Also captchalogue codes. Lots of those.

  
You didn't expect to have much use for the fabric codes Kanaya posted, in every color and texture imaginable, but you're grateful now that you don't have to ask her for them personally. Luckily the bolts of fabric you want, and the thread, are cheap to alchemize.

  
You get the cloth laid out on your respiteblock floor. The pattern, also Kanaya's, doesn't look entirely unintelligible. You've built computers before—none that would escape Sollux's contempt, but still—a shirt can't be beyond you. You roll up your sleeves and lift the scissors.

  
  
* * *

  


  
"Looks like a squeakvermin misapprehended your digits for a cheese wheel," Gamzee says, frowning at your hands. 

  
You yank them back. "It's not that bad."

  
"What'd you even put them through?" He tugs absently at one apron string. The apron looks to be his waistband's only support; luckily he doesn't loosen the knot.

  
"I was trying to make something," you say. "Anyway, I disinfected. What's for lunch?"

  
"Vegetable puff pastry," he says, drawing himself up. "Culled some a those tired lookin' specimens from the garden. Rose up pretty handsome."

  
"I don't know what that is, but it smells even better than it sounds."

  
"Look even better than that." Gamzee bustles to the comestible incinerator and dons the big, quilted purple mittens sitting on the counter. His movements flow like a dance with a gentle tempo, opening the incinerator and retrieving the baking tray, rising and smoothly closing the door, depositing the tray on the incinerator-top. The mittens slip onto their hook, and one hand reaches for a food turning utensil, the other for a nutrition plateau. He's so efficient in the nutritionblock, hardly ever a misstep or a fumble, even when he's at his goofiest. Tools seem to spring into his hands as he moves; he never has to search for them.

  
"Lay into this, invertebrother."

  
Two perfect golden half-moons make a flaky-edged whole at the center of the plateau he sets before you. They're surrounded by greenery and wedges of tomato, all looking perkier than you expect from your garden, glistening with some sort of grease.

  
You prod at the greens with your fork. "Are you trying to poison me?"

  
He grins lazily. "Won't hurt you none. Ain't gotta snap atcha like your lusus, now, do I?"

  
You tap one pastry. "And this is food, not dessert?"

  
"That's right."

  
"How do I eat this? Hands? Fork?"

  
"Uh..." He tilts his head, considering. "I got it sculpted with that crimped edge. You can get a grip at it there, but wait on it a sec, 'cause it's a little fiery. Then you just—" He mimes pinching it with both hands and taking a bite.

  
"All right..." The scent of the pastry has a hint of meat to it, and your meal sac has sat up and taken notice. You nudge a tomato wedge around the edge of the pastry, then look up, eyes narrowing. "Where's yours?"

  
He waves at the tray. "There's plenty more."

  
"Get a nutrition plateau and come sit with me," you say.

  
Gamzee shrugs and your stomach clenches. "Still kinda full up with fish," he says.

  
"That was hours ago."

  
He pats his stomach. "I got a little sample on with the ingredients while I was cookin' 'em up, too. Just no space left. But I'll sit right by you."

  
Your fingers twinge where you're trying to put a wrinkle in your fork. You pull out the chair next to you. "Okay, yeah. Come sit."

  
He rounds the table with a sheepish, apprehensive look, like he thinks he's in trouble. You try to smooth out whatever expression is on your face. _Not_ like a head-on collision, remember? You pat the seat. He sits and looks at you expectantly. "Go on and give that shit a test run, brother."

  
So if not a frontal assault, a more tactical approach. "You know I don't like vegetables," you say.

  
"They're in a sauce inside," Gamzee says. "You won't even taste on them being green."

  
You spear a cucumber and hold it out accusingly. "What about this?"

  
"I know you ain't crazy about 'em, best friend, but you did grow these motherfuckers, and we ain't tryin' to waste comestibles... Plus I mixed you a dressing what'll render 'em up flavorful."

  
Cooking is his _thing_. He's not just good at it; he's proud of it. He'll present you with a new dish and then explain all this shit you don't understand about the techniques he used, or how he adjusted the recipe to account for the relative altitude of your hive, or the different grains he has to work with. The details themselves don't interest you, but the fact he cares about them does. That he feels good about what he's doing is worth a great deal to you. So you feel lower than a slitherbeast's shame globes, but this is for his own good.

  
"All right, so you test it."

  
He looks at the cucumber, then at you. "I did, brother. It's good. Promise."

  
"Prove it."

  
He looks less hurt than confused—you've never sincerely doubted anything he's given you, even if you've groused about ingredients you don't like. "Uhhh, okay." He ducks his head and nips the cucumber off your fork. His lips flicker. "See?"

  
"Okay." You eat one, yourself. He's right; the skin is a bit shriveled, but the dressing makes it genuinely tasty. Your stomach clamors for you to hurry it up. Instead, you stab a tomato wedge and some of the shiny green leaves. "This next. I need assurances."

  
"I don't wanna be eatin' your whole plateau."

  
"You said there was plenty more."

  
"There is, but—" He blinks unhappily at the fork as you hold it under his nose. You raise your eyebrows at him. He sighs and takes it, then watches you, frowning, until you follow suit. When you offer him the next bite, he doesn't protest, but he doesn't look happy. Soon the greens are gone.

  
"Here," you say, lifting one of the two crescents. "I'm not that hungry." You hope your stomach will keep the noise down so the lie isn't as blatant. Gamzee looks crushed, and you can't take it. "It looks really good!" you assure him. "I'm just kinda full, and I don't wanna waste it."

  
He doesn't look convinced. "You can't be running all over at fall of night on a empty meal sac," he says, voice pitching up in agitation. "Gettin' baked on by the sun and slingin' a sickle round, and eatin' a mouthful of fish and no lunch. You don't like this, I'll fix you anything else, but you can't just go without, Karkat!"

  
"I—" you begin. "You're the one who—"

  
"What do you want?" he asks, getting up. His hands are partially curled towards his chest, like he's halfway between reaching for something and defending himself, and you feel sick again. You grab for him, snag the hem of his shirt.

  
"Stop. Come back."

  
"Whatever you want," he says thickly.

  
"No, no, you don't get it..." You ball your fist in his shirt. "Sit, Gamzee, please. Please sit. It's not like that. Please."

  
He sits, his body all tense and hunched forward. Your throat tightens. "Listen," you say. "The greens were good. You know I hate them, but you were right about the dressing—it was delicious." You stroke his arm, feel the clenched muscles. Christ, why are you so bad at this? "I should've just said I didn't want to eat alone. I'm sorry." You wipe your other hand quickly and reach for his face. "I'm sorry. You know what kind of bullshit I spew if I'm not careful. I just didn't want to be the only one eating. Can you just share with me?"

  
"Why?" he asks.

  
Good question, Vantas. "I... feel self-conscious if it's only me. I'd feel better if you were eating, too. It's... I dunno... lonely."

  
"That... that all?" He frowns at you like he's trying to see through your skull. Lucky the damn thing's so thick.

  
"Yeah," you say. "I am hungry. Just eat, so I can, okay?"

  
"But I'm not—"

  
"I know. Humor me?"

  
"I... guess..." He picks up one pastry slowly, watching you for approval as he takes a big, exaggerated bite. You nod, and do the same.

  
You finish your meal in near silence. You've seen gunslinger showdowns at high midnight with less tension.

  
  
* * *

  


  
The next few nights are miserable. You check the tide pools to the north and south for two nights without finding anything. The third evening you find a single fish, and Gamzee eats it, but it's the only thing he eats that night without you haranguing him. 

  
You use your sewing project as an excuse to hole up in your respiteblock, but that's going as well as could be expected. 

  
By evening four, you're ready to break down if you have to look at another untouched nutrition plateau. You bolt down your breakfast and leave Gamzee in the nutritionblock with orders to finish his. You have no illusions he'll follow them. The sun has just set and the coffee hasn't had time to lighten your eyelids, but you pick up your needles and lay into the fabric like it's every life form that ever pissed you off.

  
Hours later, there's a knock—which is not a sound you're accustomed to—and Gamzee slides through your door before you can tell him to stay out. Luckily, you've just managed to disengage from where you sewed your finger into a shirt seam. You stuff the finger in your mouth. "Hey," you say around it.

  
"Heyyy." He hovers at your periphery, shifting from one foot to the other. "What, um, what all you... tackling?"

  
You hold up your effort. "It has the incredible globe-bursting gall to call itself a shirt."

  
"It could pull the ramscoat over my peepstalks," he says. You crook a finger at him and he folds himself down next to you. He reaches for your hand—you pull it away and jam your leaking finger back into your mouth. He looks at the floor. "Sorry."

  
"Not your fault I suck at this."

  
He sighs.

  
"Not your fault you grew out of your clothes, either." What are you supposed to say to his slumped shoulders, his forehead wrinkled in a way it was never supposed to? "Look, your clothes are going to look goofy until I get the hang of this, but I will. And you look good tall."

  
"Thanks," he says flatly.

  
"You really hate it, don't you?"

  
He gives you a crooked smile. It looks broken and pasted-on. "Ain't no sense in hatin' a thing gonna happen anyhow."

  
You squeeze his knee. "Does it help at all if I think you're... really... attractive like this?"

  
He laughs, baring his fangs. "Sure, brother. It helps." You can see it in his face: he doesn't believe you. He doesn't even think you're trying to be serious. It's a cold, hollow feeling in the pit of your stomach. You swallow it down.

  
"Here," you say, "try this on."

  
He pulls off his shirt, dumps it beside him. The bruises are all but gone. They could be a slight flush except for their shapes and locations. After ablutions last morning, he wanted to forgo new bandages, so you just spread ointment over the puncture wounds. Now you wish you'd insisted.

  
He heals quickly, even for a highblood. After six days, the punctures are dips in his thorax filmed over with delicate, lavender skin. It's smooth to the touch, feels like it might break under the gentlest pressure—like he's still open. There's carnage written all over his body. It's healed much better than your old wounds have, but the faint sheen of scar tissue catalogues bullet and stab wounds, gouges and slashes and breaks. More damage than one troll should be able to live through.

  
Honkbeastflesh rises almost immediately over his skin. You kneel up in front of him and turn the shirt right side out. He raises his arms.

  
It's not the most elegant execution, but you added a button flap in the back of the collar to get it over his horns, and it works. Only the tips of his claws protrude from the cuffs, but the sleeves hug his arms instead of flapping like wings. You pull the hem down over his torso. Still a little wide, but nothing like the tents you got from the alchemiter. You nuzzle his cheek as you reach to do up the collar flap and he snorts, ticklish, shoulders rising. You lean back to survey your work.

  
"It's, uh..." Gamzee's looking at his sleeves. "Bright."

  
You botched so many attempts that by the time you started this one, you were nearing the end of the bolt of traditional black. You made the sleeves out of the purple you'd alchemized for his symbol. It _is_ brighter than lowblood fashion would typically permit.

  
You fold your arms, eyeing him. "You wanna see?"

  
He looks uncertain, but takes your hand and follows you to your ablutionblock. He frowns at his reflection like it said something particularly hurtful about his lusus. "I dunno, brother. It's kinda fancy."

  
Behind him, you can see both his back and his reflection. It's not a perfect fit, but the way the shirt flows from his shoulders to his narrow hips makes you stand straighter. The purple sleeves make his eyes glow. "Okay, not to pat myself on the back, or anything, but I might be way better at this than I thought. You look great."

  
He gives you a disgruntled look through the mirror. You smirk. "What? You don't like it?"

  
He plucks at the sleeves, then the hem, shifting his shoulders like he's trying to worm his way away from the cloth. "I dunno, best friend, it's just..."

  
You take him by the hips and turn him, look up into his eyes. "Yes? Go on."

  
He sighs gustily. "I don't wanna be that bright."

  
"Okay," you say. "Is it comfortable, though?" You take his hand and rub his arm. "What do you think of the fabric?"

  
He blinks. "Well, uh... Pretty motherfuckin' cozy." He watches your hand stroke up and down. The corners of his mouth flicker. "It's all fuzzy like ramscoat, only softer."

  
You pat his upper arms. "And warm, right?"

  
"Hey, yeah." He looks down at himself. "Does get to fending off the chill proper."

  
You grin. "Okay, hold on. I managed one pair of pants that weren't quite a crime against sentient life." You dart out and back and get him to change into the new pair. These are all black; you haven't bothered figuring out the codes for spots, yet. They don't have pockets, and they aren't hemmed, so they hit the floor behind his heels, but only just, which is already light-sweeps ahead of the alchemized atrocities. The waist is about a handsbreadth too wide, but your crudely-executed drawstring gets it to stay at his hips. You tug the hem of the shirt back down over it. "Warm?" He starts to turn towards the mirror, but you catch his elbows and stop him. "Warm?" you repeat.

  
He shifts his hips. The loose cloth slides over his legs. He nods.

  
"Comfortable?"

  
He runs his hand over his stomach, pats his legs. "Yeah."

  
You exhale through your nose and nod emphatically. "Here." You roll the cuffs up to his wrists, then hunker down to cuff his pants. You pop back up. "Yeah," you say. "Fuck yeah. The stitching looks like I was having a seizure the whole time, but this is so much better." The closer fit accentuates the way his build has stretched out, but it finally makes him look like a troll wearing his own clothes, rather than a starving waif swathed in discarded rags. 

  
"I dunno..." Gamzee says again.

  
"I'll change the colors on the next one," you say. "Now I know these are reasonably close, the next round'll look better." You click your tongue.

  
"What?"

  
"I haven't added your sign, yet."

  
He shrugs. "Not a thing, brother."

  
You narrow your eyes at his unadorned chest. "No, it is. It isn't right for you to walk around without it, but..." But you don't want to put him back in the pants he has to hold up manually or the shirt he wears around his elbows. Rough as your attempts are, they make him look like a troll with a moirail, and that's what he goddamn well is, so fuck if you're letting him change back. "Can you stick with these for tonight, since they're warmer, and I'll get your sign on one properly tomorrow?"

  
He wraps his arms around himself. "They _are_ warm."

  
You smile. "Alright, what do you say we have lunch, then we can transplant some of those seedlings to the garden?"

  
"I got a nice soup and a new loaf for you, best friend," Gamzee says. "Not feeling a hunger yet, myself, but let's get you fed." He starts for the door, but you catch his arm.

  
You have control of your expression, you're pretty sure. "Bend down here a second," you say. You take his face in your hands, kiss him gently. He smiles softly when your lips part, and you touch your nose to his. "There's one more thing I want for lunch," you say. "I'm gonna go get it, so just wait a bit, okay?"

  
"What you need, palebrother?" he asks. "I might have it inside the deep thermal hull."

  
"No, I want it fresh." You pat his cheeks and step back, smiling as brightly as you know how. "It won't take long. I'll be back soon."

  
"All right," he says. "I'll wait on you."

  
"Not long," you repeat, and jog out of the ablutionblock.

  
You pick up speed on the stairs and pelt out the front door. Your sickle appears in your hand as you step through the gate separating your lawnring from the long grass beyond. The thick stalks fall to your blade with a hushed sound like gentle rain. You reap yourself a path west toward the jungle.


	4. Chapter 4

Even after midnight, the air under the jungle canopy is hot and dense with moisture. Branches press in and vines slink down like they have a vendetta against your personal space. Flowers glisten like vital organs in your flashlight beam, with the rustle of leaves as the flow of blood. Only a few yards in you're wet, the foliage lapping you with wide, dripping tongues, some smooth, some jagged, some soft and velvety, curling around your biceps—you slash out with your sickle. There's a snap and a hushed rustle; everything's too close and the ground too padded with creepers for a thud. It was only a flower, anyway, one of those bright, organic looking ones—at least that's what you're telling yourself.

  
Gamzee's vision is much sharper than yours, and he's been gathering here for sweeps, so he has his own paths, and seems to get along fine with the over-friendly flora. You feel like you're being squeezed along some behemoth's protein chute. You don't often accompany Gamzee on his foraging expeditions, but you're familiar enough with his main trail to know where the danger zone is, and you reach it about a quarter of an hour later, sickle already swinging.

  
There was something on Alternia called landsharkweed that stood about a foot high and consisted of a clump of grasslike fronds surrounding a single, fanged, carnivorous bloom. The fronds were covered with sweet sap that attracted insects. Smaller ones just stuck to the sap, but the tendrils were prehensile enough to wrap around beetles. It operated like an integrated spider and web, trapping and suffocating the insects before feeding them into its maw. It used a combination of its teeth and acidic nectar to digest its prey.

  
Now these New Alternian fuckers... You've only seen the long, ropy tendrils they put out, no toothed maw, as yet. The fronds are strong and elastic, and their prehensile abilities put octopus tentacles to shame. They're also covered with sap, but it isn't sweet, and the effects on prey are different...

  
The _point_ is, you keep an eye out for them and slice them before they have a chance to touch you. For good measure, you slash everything in the area, branch, frond, and flower, leaving an extra layer to mulch into the jungle floor. Fuck these giant plants, fuck the huge marauding fauna, and fuck everything, while you're on the subject—

  
"Not you!" you snarl, as one thick tendril pierces your guard and lashes around your thigh. You slice it off and go careening into the foliage on the other side of the trail in your leap away. 

  
"Augh, disgusting!" you groan, when you stop, well past the tendril zone, and turn your flashlight on yourself. A glistening band rings the denim over your thigh. It doesn't look wet enough to soak through, and you're smart enough not to touch it to check. You shudder. Fucking planet. You reap a hanging branch just to vent your rage bladder, and push onward.

  
Gamzee, you know, has managed to keep clear of the mutant landsharkweed, precisely because of its sap, but he lets everything else scratch and bludgeon him as it will, so what there is of his trail is due to his repeated tracks in the dirt and loam. Paired with your memory, it's just enough to follow. You're nearing the forty-five minute mark when you find the landmark where he said he deviated the other day: a clump of pale gray trees, each about the circumference of your waist, which have twined around each other as if to disguise themselves as a single tree as wide as Gamzee is tall, rising to add their combined foliage to the canopy a hundred feet above your head.

  
You swing your beam around. Your moirail—matesprit—quadrantmate isn't great with directions, especially the cardinal variety. He said he peeled off where all the hissing started. You grit your teeth as you search the lower branches.

  
Sure enough, there's a tunnel-like gap among the trees, splitting off northwest of this trail. The branches that span it closer to the ground, only a few feet above your head, are hung with the lazy, low-hanging arcs of slumbering stranglebeasts. "You fucksponge," you sigh. Anyone with a sense of self-preservation would choose southeast if they were going to deviate here, but this was Gamzee, so you didn't have to ask. You walk into the bower of venom-dripping lunacy as quietly as you can.

  
Slitherbeast Street stretches longer than you expect. Or maybe it's just your sudden change of pace. Either way, as your pulse levels off a bit, with the odd spike when something hisses dreamily and sags closer to your face, your pan starts up again.

  
It's a jumble. There's fabric, and the tensile strength of thread in there. Colors and how they match Gamzee's eyes. The asshole lecturing _you_ about how you have to eat, for fuck's sake. The way he arched under you, his hands tangled above his head, and said " _anything!_ "

  
Your pulse rises again, and you fumble your footing, kick up a pungent cloud of leaves, and blunder into something cool and scaly. The thick, muscular coil begins to wrap languidly around your shoulders. You jerk back with a cry, duck and run. A chorus of angry hissing starts behind you and spreads through the branches in a wave.

  
You dash, knocking coils and dart-like heads away without bothering to discriminate or account for angle, just throwing out your elbows and sickle butt as the obstacles come.

  
When you emerge from the corridor of fanged doom, you find one of the scaly bastards latched onto the back of your shirt and execute the least graceful fan dance in the history of any civilization trying to dislodge it. You fail, but manage to slice off most of the back of your shirt and leave the stranglebeast on the ground sucking cotton.

  
Then it gets quiet again, while you search for your next landmark: a bush whose flowers look like flutterpests gone through a domestic dust-collection appliance—luckily you know which plant he meant. The description makes you think of his eyes, and then the low whisper of his voice, his dark lips. His purple tongue.

  
"Fuck," you moan. "Fuckdamn it."

  
You blunder past the bush with bright, glistening purple flesh filling your mind, and it takes you a minute to realize and backtrack. The flowers might as well be his caste's emblem: shaped like elongated flutterpest wings, complete with long, elegant tails, the velvety petals are all purple, deep and dark at the edges, with whorls of lavender, veins of violet and lilac.

  
You find the opening in the trees he mentioned, right at crawly invertebrate level. You know, maybe you _will_ put Gamzee on a leash. You stuff your flashlight into your collar so it shines up under your chin, and drop straight forward onto your hands. Because who sees a gap in the undergrowth in the middle of a jungle infested with blood-sucking pests, slitherbeasts, carnivorous narcotic plants, and bafflingly huge fauna of all descriptions, a gap too narrow to see what's inside or where it leads, and thinks, _Yeah! Let me shove my skinny carcass in there! That'll be a productive and not even probably fatal use of my time!_

  
"Goddammit, Gamzee," you growl, as you slither into the leafy tunnel on your belly, propelling yourself with your splayed elbows and knees like a shimmerscaled wallclinger. "God fucking dammit."

  
The ground is soft enough, and thankfully your long sleeves keep most of the stray twigs off your arms. You keep getting smacked in the eye by leaves, though, and squint to protect them from the odd rough edge that scratches your cheeks. You mutter an obscene mantra, your temperature rising. The flashlight swings uselessly in the folds of your shirt, but it doesn't really matter, because the only way to go is forward.

  
When the thick underbrush ends and you emerge into relatively open space, you're more flapbeast's nest than troll, halfway to being independently capable of photosynthesis, which, hey, would actually be useful for your moirail, if the sun wouldn't kill him, and, you know what, let's not dwell on this train of thought.

  
And speaking of flapbeast's nests... You fumble for your flashlight and turn it off, because there it is.

  
For once, Gamzee did not exaggerate. The cluckbeast is at one o'clock, facing away from you, in a massive terrestrial nest occupying a small clearing, fashioned of branches the thickness of your arm. It appears to be sleeping, its head tucked towards one wing. Even curled up, you can tell it is, indeed, the size of a trunkbeast. Its head rests several feet above your height, and from its bulk, while you have to adjust for plumage, it must weigh at least three times what you do.

  
"Of all the times you could pick to be accurate," you mutter. You remain on your belly, watching the thing. Its feathery bulk rises and falls gently. It is one bigass motherfucking cluckbeast. An egg-layer. A female. Sort of like a feathered Mother Grub.

  
You let out a long, slow breath and pluck at the thick, papery grass poking your cheeks. The flapbeast was just protecting its brood—the one you and Gamzee have been eating for breakfast. It's just a dumb animal, acting on instinct. Your moirail is a troll—purportedly with higher cognitive functions, though he could benefit from some of the instincts this feathered jackass has. Self-preservation being highest on the list. That isn't the cluckbeast's lookout; it's yours.

  
 _You're_ the negligent shitsponge who's been too busy pailing his moirail to notice that he's trying to implode right under your sniffnodes. You're the sack of misfiring neurons who can't quiet whatever voices are tormenting him. If he's not eating, it's because of you. It's your fault he doesn't want to wear his own color or care about his sign—yours and no one else's.

  
But.

  
But that infinitely breakable lilac skin dotted across his thorax.

  
You're striding around to the front of the nest before another thought can form. 

  
"Hey!"

  
The cluckbeast snorts in its sleep, feathers rustling. You step up to the edge of its nest, inches from its outermost plumage.

  
"Hey! Nugget-breath! Wake up!" you yell.

  
One large, amber eye opens. "Yeah, you!" You wave a hand in front of it. The huge head lifts from its breast on a long, white throat and tilts further towards you, sideways, so that single eye can focus on you. "That's right, shitbeak, rise and shine!" You kick the nest. It doesn't so much as shudder, but your toes inform you loudly that they quit. "Fuck, shit, fuck, get up!" you order, hopping on one foot, waving your sickle at the flapbeast. "Get your ugly, parasite-dripping ass up! It's nest defense time! Maybe I can't kick it down, but I can set it on fire, asshole!"

  
The beast stirs like a breeze rippling over a pond, and you can't quite tell which shifts are feather and which muscle. It rears up, and, wow, it's even bigger than you thought. Looking straight up, you can only see its beak jutting over its muscular breast, not its whole head. Its willow-tree legs are just about your height, so you can see between them to a lone egg tucked against the far side of the nest.

  
The cluckbeast spreads its wings and emits a sound like a conical windstorm siren that rattles the bones in your aural canals.

  
You feel ridiculous talking to the monster's crotch, but you're too wired on adrenaline and hysteria to care. "Good!" you say. "Nice and alert? Great! So how about this? I'm gonna smash your precious egg!"

  
You make a dash between its legs.

  
You're only under its tail feathers when the cluckbeast pivots and hits you broadside with its wing. You sail clear of the nest and hit a tree with your entire right side. A headache explodes from your horn throughout your pan. You peel yourself off the tree, onto your feet, and sway around to face the flapbeast. 

  
For its bulk, the thing can move. It charges, beak gnashing, revealing sharp, conical tines evenly spaced along each edge. You bare your teeth.

  
"You're lunch, motherfucker."

  


* * *

  


The foliage rustles behind you and you swing your flashlight beam around to find Gamzee emerging from the tunnel of undergrowth between the trees. You aim the beam away and he rises to his feet, hair and clothes peppered with twigs, blinking hard against the brightness. "Hey, best friend," he says, shielding his eyes with one arm. "What you need the extra sylladex slots for?"

  
"Cluckbeast," you say.

  
He draws his arm away, squinting until his eyes adjust. "Oh, shit, brother," he says. "What'd you do?"

  
You're taken aback at the disapproval in his voice, and frown, defensive. "I killed it."

  
The scene is a little bloody, admittedly. You laid a tarp over the nest and butchered something three times your mass. Tall drifts of red-spattered feathers make it look like Twelfth Perigee's Eve on Alternia. You wouldn't have called him out if captchaloguing half the creature hadn't maxed out your sylladex.

  
"Whatcha go and do that for?" Gamzee asks. "Won't lay no eggs, now."

  
"I prefer the small ones," you say.

  
"Okay, but—" He turns toward you and cuts off in a gulp.

  
"It's not mine," you say. You told him over the communicrab, but he's still aghast. "It's not my blood."

  
"Truthfully?"

  
"It didn't even scratch me. I don't blame you for getting bitten, anymore, though. Bastard was pretty tough."

  
"Yeah..." Gamzee says slowly. You don't want to blind him with your flashlight, so you can't quite read his expression. "So I should get this meat stowed, right?"

  
"Yeah, I'm out of space."

  
He turns away, and the remaining bundles of meat blink out of sight under his hands. You stuff the tarp into a plastic bag and offer him that. It vanishes, too. "Musta missed one," he says, hopping up into the nest.

  
"One what?"

  
He stands up with another massive egg. It blinks out, too, and he drops down next to you. He touches your shoulder when you go for the tunnel. "Lemme blaze this trail."

  
It's easier going, following in his wake. If you stick close, he parts the vines and branches, and they fall closed behind you. You want to grouse about how he's letting them touch him, but something about staring up at the back of his neck keeps you quiet. He doesn't say anything, except to advise you to copy his posture when you pass under all the slitherbeasts. They don't notice you this time.

  
The moon is still high when you emerge from the trees. Gamzee ploughs straight into the long grass. You hesitate a moment too long and the stalks close behind him. You push your way through and bump into his back. He starts moving again.

  
"Hey," you say after several minutes.

  
He doesn't answer.

  
"Gamzee."

  
Still nothing. You follow him silently for a while, with every step feeling more like a pupa caught playing with the incinerator-top, and progressively resentful about it.

  
" _Gamzee._ "

  
"Uh-huh?"

  
"Are you—" You fumble your footing and he turns, reaching out to steady you. "You are," you say. "You're mad at me."

  
His face sets and he swivels away again. "Naw."

  
"Yes, you are." You try to circle around him, but he lengthens his stride so you can't catch up and see his face. You're not willing to run, yet, so you stumble alongside him, not even as frustrated as you are surprised. "You're angry," you reiterate, like a moron. "I can't remember the last time you were angry at me."

  
Gamzee's shoulders tense. "I can."

  
Your pace falters. Once the delirium from that epic sunburn faded, and you were on your feet again, Gamzee took several days of shooshing and feelings jams to calm down. Then he cursed you out for an entire night, with words even you had never heard. Just before dawn, he broke down and clung to you, begging you not to leave him for what he'd said.

  
"You were right to be mad, then."

  
"I... I know."

  
The grass rustles around you. "You can be angry. You can be angry with me."

  
His fists clench at his sides and he shakes his head, moves faster.

  
"I'm not saying I'll agree with your reasons, but it's still okay. If you wanna yell, you can yell. It won't change anything between us. No one's going anywhere."

  
A pause. "Don't wanna get my decibels ringin'."

  
"So be angry quietly."

  
He comes to a halt and you fetch up behind him. He takes a deep breath before turning around. "I wanna lay hands on you, but you're gonna get salty with me if I put blood and plumage all over these novel threads."

  
You're not proud of the first place your mind takes the concept of laying on of hands. You look down at yourself, then at him. "It'll sterilize out," you offer. "What—?"

  
He shakes his head. "Reach for the moons."

  
"There's only one," you start, but he's already tugging at the hem of your shirt. "Hey! Quit—!"

  
"Go on!" he says, glowering. His glower is too close to a pout for you to resist, so you comply, and he pulls off your shirt, captchalogues it. He starts undoing your belt.

  
"Whoa, hey! We're outside."

  
"Ain't no one watching," he grumbles. "I want the blood off you, Karkat."

  
Your name hits you hard, and you drop your arms, let him divest you of your jeans, and consequently your shoes, despite the irrational surge of embarrassment. There's no one else sentient for hundreds of miles—you really might as well be in your leisureblock—but you still feel exposed when the night breeze ghosts between your legs and the grass brushes your bare shoulders. Instinctively you move in closer to him. "Gamzee..."

  
He drops to his knees hard enough to make you wince, and holds your shoulders at arm's length, looking you over. Aside from a few scrapes, you're pretty sure you were telling the truth about not bleeding. Gamzee frowns as he scrutinizes you and you try not to squirm or twist away. When he pulls you in and presses his face into your chest, you feel a few bruises that are probably going to show tomorrow. You sigh and let yourself relax slightly into the hug.

  
"You have a funny way of being mad," you say.

  
"Good."

  
"Not funny ha-ha. More funny what-the-fuck."

  
"I ain't got started, yet."

  
"Okay. Um, how long do I have to wait?"

  
He pulls you closer, one broad hand in the small of your back, ruining your balance so you have to latch onto his shoulders. "I feel like I gotta obligation to wax strict on you, diamond, but it makes a brother uneasy."

  
"If it helps, I feel completely ridiculous standing out here in my socks and boxers."

  
"I'm talkin' seriousness, here."

  
"So am I."

  
"What'd you do it for?"

  
You aim a sulky look at the hive between his horns. "Lunch." He presses his face harder into your chest and makes a small, sad sound that hurts your bloodpusher. "It put holes in you," you growl.

  
"That ain't reason enough."

  
"Yes, it is!" You slip your arms around his neck and stroke his hair, pressing him against your heart. "Yes it fucking _is_. I'm only not staking its head outside our hive as an example for hygiene reasons."

  
"That's some morbid shit right there, best friend."

  
You knock your chin between his horns and twist the back of his shirt between your fingers. "People shouldn't put holes in you."

  
"Wasn't people," he says. "Was a flapbeast."

  
"Ugh, fuck, what does it matter? Do you really give that much of a shit about some stupid overgrown cluckbeast?"

  
Gamzee sighs. "Ain't the feathered fauna got my sentimentality engaged." He slips one hand under your ass and stands, hoisting you with him.

  
You squawk. "What're you doing?"

  
"Gonna get you tidied before I get stern," he says, settling you against his front. There's nowhere to put your limbs except around him, leaving you clinging on like the world's most awkward tree-hugger marsupial plastered to a purple eucalyptus.

  
"What the hell, Gamzee?"

  
"Hush," he says, with a firm pat to your back. You groan and slump over his shoulder, resigning yourself to your personal humiliation. It's really lucky you don't have neighbors. 

  
He fills the trap before he lets you climb in—he may think you don't notice the hand hovering behind your shoulder as you do. The hot water reaches your waist, immediately begins to work into your muscles. You grab the dermal detergent and start scrubbing the twigs and cobwebs from your hair.

  
"Nope." Gamzee takes hold of your wrists and pulls them wide, away from your body.

  
"Quit it!" You twist to see him over your shoulder. "I'm trying to wash."

  
"Now, see, maybe that's how you get at a feisty barkbeast what's been rollin' in the mud, but it ain't adjacent to how you put a shine on my best friend."

  
You try to pull free, but his grip on your wrists is unbreakable. You viciously suppress the frisson that gives you. "I've been performing my own ablutions since I was a sweep and a half old, thank you."

  
"Yeah, and you been doin' it improper the whole time." He pulls off his shirt and hangs it carefully on the towel rack, trading it for a wash cloth. He kneels and leans over the trap rim. "Best leave your moirail in charge a this mess."

  
"I am not a mess."

  
"From where I'm sitting, that's what we got here." He twirls a finger above your head. "Turn back around," he says. "I'll get your dorsal."

  
You grit your teeth and turn. He bats your hands away when you reach for your hair again. "Nuh-uh. Just let 'em soak."

  
You grumble, but let them sink under the water.

  
Long fingers thread into your hair. "Got half the jungle stowed in here," he murmurs. He combs through from forehead to nape, and you feel him shake something off his hand. "Plants just like to get their cling on with you, I guess."

  
"Shut up."

  
Gamzee hums in answer and keeps raking his fingers through your hair, pulling out the twigs. His claws gently scratch your scalp. You let yourself lean against the edge of the trap. Once the debris is gone, he works the detergent into a lather. The pads of his fingers rub firm circles over your scalp, working down from the top. You wince when he brushes your right horn. The whole thing is sore, and the hornbed tender. Gamzee makes a sympathetic sound and steers clear.

  
You start to protest when he reaches your temples, but subside almost immediately, stifling a groan. He works them gently with his fingers while his thumbs press into the knots at the base of your skull.

  
You let your eyelids droop and your head roll forward. Your fists and shoulders loosen. It's a close thing, but you manage not to whine when he stops. He starts the water and retrieves the showerhead. Your bangs are pulled carefully back. "Seal those lids," he says.

  
He runs his fingers through your hair as he rinses, chases the suds from your eyes. He washes your face carefully with the cloth before announcing, "There, safe."

  
You feel strange, as he adds detergent to the wash cloth and begins scrubbing your back. Your body wants to relax under his touch, but you're agitated, anticipating. He lifts each of your arms, cleans them like he's polishing one of his delicate nutritionblock gadgets.

  
"Slide on down and soak and lemme soap those nubs," he says. You turn to frown at him and he glares back. The expression fails at severity—he looks more offended than anything—but you know what he means and it feeds the growing pressure in your chest. You shift to the shallow end of the trap and slip down the edge. Gamzee holds out a hand and you try not to blush as you put your ankle across his palm.

  
"I can wash myself," you mutter.

  
"Mm-hm."

  
Gamzee keeps his eyes on what he's doing, not meeting yours, and still it rapidly becomes too embarrassing to watch. You close your eyes.

  
"This is dumb," you grumble. You wash him all the time, but this is very different from your businesslike scrub-down. You hadn't thought it possible, but he's even more careful with you than he has been the past two weeks. He's so slow you want to scream, but the gentle pressure of his fingers, the caress of the cloth, do feel good. Suds sit like silk on your skin until he smooths them away with a palmful of warm water. You squirm, try not to laugh when he cleans between each toe, because you're annoyed, and he's mad, and it isn't the time to giggle like a moron. Then the cloth disappears and both his thumbs press into your arch.

  
"Hngh." You clamp your lips shut and swallow. He draws another pair of firm parallel lines along the arch, then moves up, kneading under the ball of your foot. Your eyelids flutter. "What do you think you're doing?"

  
"If a brother's gonna be runnin' all up an' down the planet, leavin' tracks all across the jungle, best be taking some care on his nubs."

  
You try to say something harsh, but it comes out as a groan. "Quit it," you say halfheartedly.

  
His fingers falter. "Don' wanna," he says. "...Do I have to?"

  
You struggle with your ego. Your id has never had a foot massage. It wins. "I guess not," you sigh.

  
"All right, then."

  
You subside against the wall of the trap. It is criminal how relaxing this is. Downright dangerous. He's your moirail, but imagine if this technique were to fall into the wrong fronds. You have entirely too many kill switches. _God_ is Gamzee good with them.

  
He moves up to your calf, kneading the muscle, smoothing it with his thumbs. You sigh, regretful, when he slides your leg back beneath the water. When he taps your other knee, you lift your foot readily.

  
Your back relaxes and you slide a little further down as he works you. A low purr curls up from your thorax. You jerk, tensing again.

  
"Fuck, am I even allowed to purr? I mean, you're telling me off, right?"

  
"Hmmmmm." Gamzee touches your shoulder with one soapy finger and presses you back against the side of the trap. "I guess you can get a rumble on if you got a pan to."

  
"Gamzee," you say, and flush at how close your tone is to a whine. "Gamzee, this isn't how you go about being angry at someone. You're doing it wrong."

  
"Nuh-uh."

  
"Yes. Yes you are."

  
"You hush." You open your eyes to glare at him. He lifts his eyebrows imperiously. "If you get rebellious, then I'll hafta go off strict on you. Invertebrother don't know how to mind himself, his moirail's gotta get a pick onto that slack."

  
"How are you going to get strict with me?" you demand.

  
His face crumples. "You ain't gonna make me get a figure at that, are you?"

  
Why doesn't he just shoot you through your bile duct? You slide down till the water comes up to your chin. "You are a filthy rotten cheat."

  
The corner of his mouth flickers, but the distress won't quite smooth away. "Guess if that's what's all called for, that's what a motherfucker'll be."

  
You _do_ whine then, though you clamp down on it. You want to squirm and thrash like a wiggler to exorcise your embarrassment and agitation. He's pacifying you. The sheer gall of this idiot. He's shooshing you, and ordering you around, and gearing up for a _scolding_ , and where the hell does he get off? You're the stable one. You're the caretaker. _He's_ the one who deserves a stern lecture on self-maintenance. But your hindbrain just wants to roll over and show him your belly. Which... you're pretty much doing right now, anyway.

  
Your body wants to go limp and let him minister to it. A traitorous part of your thinkpan whispers that you ought to let him lay down the law. And then maybe he can pin you down in the pile and really show you who's in charge tonight—

  
—And that _isn't_ how pale goes! You've been reading too many of those human romances, haven't you? Oh, god, you are the _worst..._

  
"Stop."

  
You look up.

  
Gamzee touches your forehead with his index finger. "Whatever you simmerin' in there, it's done."

  
Your heart squeezes. Surrender, surrender, surrender. If you don't, you're going to twist apart. "Okay."

  
The crease eases between his eyebrows. He gives your calf a few last, lingering strokes before lowering your leg. "I'll get the rest before you rinse off," he says. 

  
You start to rise, but he pushes you back with the same finger. "Make like a tea bag, best friend. Already gonna be all bruised up come evensong. Least you can get at's soakin' some of the other pains out."

  
You gnaw your lower lip. "Gamzee," you murmur, "please. Please."

  
He leans over the side of the trap, arms trailing into the water. "Want me to say my piece?"

  
"Yes."

  
He takes a deep breath and expels it. "You ain't been level with me lately."

  
"What? Yes, I have."

  
He shakes his head. "You think I can't tell when you're brewin' a tempest in that teapot? I know. It's in your walk. It's in your talk. Shines out your eyes."

  
"I'm just... I've been a little preoccupied."

  
"I know that's right." He stirs the soapy water. "You get these ideas bubblin', then raging, and they lash you up on the interior. I see, but you won't let a brother soothe you. If you don't come to me and jam, I can't get in there with you, best friend. Can't be of no use to you."

  
"No, you're—"

  
"Shoosh," he says. "Ain't spoke all of it, yet."

  
You press your lips together and nod.

  
"If you're not ready to let a thing out, then I can bide. My sponge ain't exactly the pinnacle a the pile when it comes to the unraveling of mysteries—" He raises his eyebrows at you when you start to protest. "But if you're gonna go laceratin' the inside and not lettin' me ministrate to that, I'm..." He swallows and looks at you warily, head bowed, mouth tight. "I'm gonna get my guard on of the outer, fierce as ever a motherfucker got to defending any thing. You might not set your estimation on that hide so high, but I do. That's where you live, Karkat. That's a hive worth every kinda care can be lavished on it. Every drop of blood I could shed keepin' it safe. And when you don't mind the woodmuncherbugs or put out the fire in the nutritionblock, when you ding up the walls and take the back end of a sickle to the windows... it gets me angry. You can't be doing that. I can't stand by and let you."

  
Your nails dig into your palms. Your heart beats so hard you feel dizzy. "Gamzee..."

  
"I don't like to so much as conceptualize fightin' you, brother, but on this, I will."

  
"Oh, fuck, fuck..." You rise onto your knees and throw your arms around his neck. He sits up, arms going awkwardly around you. You kiss his ear, his cheek, wherever your lips hit, squeezing him to you. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

  
"Wait..." He sounds confused, vaguely alarmed. "Wait, that ain't right..."

  
"Yes, it is. You're right. I haven't been a good moirail lately, I—"

  
"No, no, hold up." Gamzee spreads a firm hand on your back, stills your head with the other. "Nobody said any shit like that."

  
"It's true. I'm fucking it up. Just like..." Your voice breaks. "...before," you finish in a whisper. Your fingers shy away from the delicate, healing skin on his back. "It put holes in you. It's all my fault."

  
"Oh, Karkat," he says softly. "That ain't true. No."

  
"Yes." You press your face into his hair and do your damndest not to cry. A high whine forces its way out.

  
"My fierce flushed diamond," Gamzee croons, stroking your back. "You're too motherfuckin' harsh for your own good. You twig to why a brother has to get strict on you?"

  
You cling more tightly. "Yes. Yes, be strict. I deserve it."

  
"You do, an' that's a fact." Gamzee twists to kiss your horn and you shiver. "Come on, let's get the last of you squeaky, and then it's jam time whether you like it or not."

  
You let him finish washing you and dry you off in some strange, docile daze where you can't even summon shame. He pulls one of his old shirts over your head—too small for him, now, but it still falls to mid-thigh on you—and carries you, cradled against his chest, to the cushion pile in his block. You curl into him, balling your hands in his shirt. He wraps his arms and legs around you and nestles down in the pillows, sets his chin atop your head.

  
You screw your eyes shut and clench your teeth. You're not going to be able to talk without losing control. But all you hear is a soft sigh above your head, and he starts stroking your back again. "Hush now," he murmurs. "I got you, brother. Ain't nothin' to harm either one of us up in here."

  
You breathe in deeply. His scent is all around you, even in the worn-soft cotton against your skin. After a few deep, slow breaths, your pulse begins to slow again. You slip a hand gingerly over his waist. He wiggles his hips, pulls in the leg he has slung over your thighs to draw you closer. You rub your cheek against his chest, swallow hard. He keeps stroking you, whispering soft reassurances, until your throat loosens and you think you can risk speaking.

  
"I don't wanna see you hurt. So many fucking holes—" Your voice catches.

  
He presses a kiss to the top of your head. "I wanna hear it all, brother, but there's no call to rush."

  
You nod, and chew your lip as he pets your hair. "I," you breathe, "I'm scared. I'm so fucking scared, Gamzee." You bite down before your voice can get away from you.

  
"What's frightenin' you?" he asks softly.

  
Your throat locks up again. He waits, stroking you, his body warming around you.

  
"I..." you say. "I'm afraid I'm going to fail you again."

  
"You haven't—"

  
"I wasn't there for you when you needed me."

  
"Maybe one time—"

  
"So many times." You swallow and taste blood, unlatch your teeth from the inside of your cheek. "You... you asked me for help and I ignored you. You needed me and I didn't know. I wasn't watching closely enough. I should have understood you and I _didn't_. I should have had faith in you and I... was too fucking stupid. I nearly—no, I _did_ lose you." You stop, breathing hard. "I'm only lucky it wasn't permanent. I was so lucky. I don't know if I'll be that lucky the next time I fuck up."

  
"Brother, you can't take that on. No one was wise."

  
"I'm your moirail. I should have been."

  
"So you made a mistake," he says. "Bad shit happens, sometimes. Don't mean you gotta carry it for always."

  
"A whole sweep of mistakes. What if—"

  
"You ain't a Time player, my brother," Gamzee says. "Can't be twistin' up the timeline over every little thing, and you know just how that kinda noise gets to resolvin' itself, anywise."

  
"I know, but Gamzee, I almost—"

  
He puts two fingers over your lips. "But you didn't, Karkat. And you're forgettin' all the things went down subsequent. Best friend, I was so fractured I didn't know which motherfucker I was, anymore. Didn't know where to begin a rebuild. You went and gathered me up, smoothed all the jagged edges, pieced me together like a jigsaw."

  
You catch your breath.

  
"Wasn't anything in me left but panic and pain. Felt like I'd been screaming in the dark a lifetime long and no one heard..." His arms tighten around you. "And then you came for me."

  
His heartbeat is quick and hard under your cheek. You stroke his side, nuzzle his chest.

  
"You came for me. Made it so I could think in my own pan again. Let the joy back in. No one else coulda done that for me. No one but my moirail."

  
"Gamzee, I..."

  
"You're my moonlight, Karkat. Can't get my see on of anything, excepting by you."

  
You bite your tongue and close your eyes tightly. You need something to ground you or you're going to weep, and you latch onto his heartbeat, which is tripping along like it's chasing something. You run your thumb over and over the ridge of his hip, probably too quickly to be soothing. Your breathing is jerky, hiccuping, but trying to keep quiet makes it worse, so you just pet him distractedly, listen to his heartbeat like it's an enemy feed and you're an imperial codebasher until it slows.

  
"Did I really... do that?" you whisper.

  
"You did. No one else."

  
You exhale shakily.

  
"And now here we are. You, me, a wicked pile, a pretty motherfuckin' bitchtits hive, with some badass cluckbeasts out front the lawnring."

  
You snort.

  
He continues, "So you gonna go on with this hatemance with your past self? 'Cause it gets me in a quandary, best friend. If some rude flapbeast was to get his teeth all over you and live, I'd know to give him a club upside the nugbone. When it's you waxin' pitch with yourself, I'm not so crystal on how to back an invertebrother up."

  
You try to laugh, but it doesn't come out right. "I don't know. Maybe you have to auspisticize."

  
"Hmmmm." He leans back, pushes you away so he can see your face. "Nnnnooo..." he says thoughtfully. "No, blackrom ain't where you and me belong at."

  
"I wasn't—"

  
"But maybe I do have a stricter role to get playin', here." He frowns down at you, but this time there's the hint of a smile in his eyes. "I need you to lay on off my moirail."

  
Your lips twitch. "Oh, really?"

  
He nods. "Can't have you talkin' shit."

  
"What're you gonna do about it?"

  
"Preach."

  
"Huh?"

  
He grins. "You heard the good word on my palebrother Karkat? 'Cause he's a subject worth a lotta lyricizing."

  
"Oh, fuck no." You roll away, but he slips an arm around your waist and pulls you back.

  
"Let me shine some enlightenment into you, my brother, all about the terrifying motherfucker what became my moirail." He tucks his chin over your shoulder and weaves both arms around your waist, curls his legs up under you.

  
"God, no." You squirm, but he clings.

  
"'S a long story," he rumbles. "'Bout this fierce crimson fighter who took no flack from any troll."

  
"Augh, shut up."

  
"The baddest and the bravest, most beautiful brother—"

  
"Are you rapping? Are you rapping in my ear, you funhive fuckup?"

  
He chuckles. "Maybe."

  
"Ugh. Let go." He opens his arms. You open your mouth in surprise, then flush so hotly you can feel the color. You're bereft without that pressure and warmth, and instinctively you press back against him. "Uh... well. I... actually..."

  
He presses his chin down on your shoulder.

  
"If you're just doing your duty, I... don't want to stop you..." You clear your throat. It's physically difficult not to pull his arms around you, yourself. "I mean... if you're not strict with me, I might start running my mouth again, and I've got volumes to say about your loudmouth moirail."

  
His arms slide around you. One hand comes to rest over your heart, pressing you back securely against him. You sigh, melting into the embrace. A low rumble starts in Gamzee's chest. "Aw, well, then, we're gonna get down an' disciplinary all in this block."

  


* * *

  
You're weightless; you don't so much walk downstairs as float. You drift around the windows pulling shutters, because somehow the rest of the night was swallowed in a cotton candy haze of pallor, and the sky is fading from black to blue in the east. You didn't want to leave the pile, but the load gaper called, and then your stomach decided to harass you, too. But it's okay because you smell like Gamzee, and your thinkpan is still pale-drunk and can't find a thing to complain about. 

  
You rummage through the thermal hull, shoving all the good stuff aside to get at the back, where there's a clear container of leechweed. You toss that and a bulb of garlic onto the counter, then search for the oil.

  
You found the leechweed growing wild at the edge of your vegetable patch and cleared a space for it further out, where it wouldn't sap the life from the other plants. The frilly leaves taste like penance for a life of mistakes, but they're full of iron. You find a pot and start warming the oil.

  
When you were deep into your GrubTube-led threshecutioner training, you picked up this recipe for a stamina-building power-food. It was one of the few pieces of accurate information you gleaned from that endeavour—the nutrition is sound. You can't stand to eat it every day, as you once did for an entire season, but you get a semi-masochistic craving for it every so often after a heavy workout.

  
You smash a few cloves of garlic lazily with a fork and dump them into the pot. You've done this enough times that you don't really need your full attention, which is good, because you want to stay dreamy and content. Even the fact that you're pantsless and barefoot in the nutritionblock can't pierce your fog.

  
The scent of garlic rises, strong and appetizing. With regret, you dump in a double handful of leechweed. Steam rises, immediately tinging the air with a bitter scent. You drum your fingers on the counter and poke the weeds down with your fork, waiting for them to shrivel and soften. When there's space again, you pile on more leaves.

  
The stairs creak, and bare feet pad up behind you. Gamzee's knees touch the floor either side of your feet and his arms go around you. His face presses into your back.

  
"Did I wake you?" you ask, running a thumb over his wrist.

  
"Mm-nh." He shakes his head. He leans around your shoulder to peer at the incinerator-top. "Is that for me?"

  
You freeze. There's something in his tone... not fascination, exactly... You wish you didn't have to lie, but there's no way you can say no. "Yeah."

  
His back straightens—you feel it against you—and he leans a little further, cheek pressed tight against your arm. "What is it?"

  
Your heart thumps hard. "Uh, it's garlic leechweed, but it's not coming out right. I can warm something else up."

  
"Nooo," he protests. "I wanna try it."

  
"Okay, but I think it might be gross." You're fairly certain grossness was part of the point of the recipe.

  
"Mm."

  
He remains latched onto you until you finish and shoo him to the table. He slides into a chair, watching you eagerly. "Okay, seriously," you say, as you spoon glistening green slop into his nutrition hemisphere, "if you don't like it, we've got plenty of other food."

  
"Uh-uh." He holds his hand out for a fork, which you sigh and provide. He shovels up a forkful.

  
"Smaller bite might be—better," you finish, as he crams the whole thing in his mouth. You grimace, and step to the side. A spit-take would be a perfectly reasonable reaction. As you recall, it was yours.

  
Gamzee narrows his eyes, peering at the ceiling. He chews. It takes a while, because even cooked, the leaves are tough, and he picked up a clump of them that were trying to layer themselves into a brick. Finally, he swallows, and scoops up more. He pauses with the tines against his lower lip. "Aren't you eating?"

  
"Uh..." You turn and mutely serve yourself. He's chewing through another block of leechweed when you sit down. You sample it. It's like biting down on a slimy iron bar. The bitterness covers your tongue and prickles at the back of your throat.

  
"This's good," Gamzee says. He has green stuck between his fangs.

  
Okay. The stew was one thing, but leechweed is objectively, _empirically_ disgusting. Even the jackass training enthusiasts like you don't _enjoy_ it. You suffer through it to feel like a hardass and build muscle on the cheap, but no one _likes_ it.

  
"Oh."

  
"What's up, brother?"

  
"I was just thinking... of something that goes well with this."

  
"What's that?"

  
You flounder and pull out random human words. "Cream of... chicken tomato à la Kingsolver." Christ, even he's not going to buy that.

  
His brows purse. "Don't know how to whip that one up."

  
"No, I'll make it," you say, keeping your tone casual although your heart is racing. "It's easy. You want some?"

  
He swallows and looks at you with wide eyes. "Yeah. Fuck yeah, best friend."

  
"Cool," you say, and you are _so_ cool, so calm, except for how you forget to breathe for the next minute. You _are_ the codebasher. It's you.

  
While Gamzee finishes off the leechweed, you dump a bunch of random shit in a pot: butter, salt, dried leaves, your squishy-ass tomatoes, milk, and a heap of chopped cluckbeast.

  
The result is an affront to tastefronds everywhere, but maybe Gamzee's right about you. Maybe you are the brightest, the brainiest, and the best, because he cleans his nutrition plateau, and holds it out for more.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to split up the last chapter, so there'll be one more and a short epilogue.

A rainbow of berries cascades down one side of an asymmetrical shell of foamy golden pastry at the center of your plateau. You lean in to see how it's done. Under the berries pooled at the bottom of the shell is a layer of white cream that extends up the taller side. The berries are set into it so that it peeks through like froth. Flat slices of strawberry spiral out from the pastry to the border of the nutrition plateau.

 

"Now I know you're hoofbeastshitting me," you say. "How is that not a dessert?"

 

On the other side of the table, Gamzee smooths his apron. "Fruit's good for you, best friend, and the cake part's all light and springy, but nothin' more than bread. The cream's a little heavy, but it won't hurt you none, the way you tax yourself." He runs a finger along his mixing hemisphere and holds it out to you. "Here, taste."

 

You shoot him a narrow look, but see nothing but innocence in his eyes. You lean over the table, take his hand, and lick the cream quickly off his finger. You lean back, your face hot. He watches you expectantly. The cream is thick, cool on your tongue. Vanilla asserts itself more as an aroma than a flavor. It isn't sweet, but the texture feels luxurious, decadent.

 

"It's good," you say. "Everything you make is good—you don't really need to ask."

 

He grins. "Try the main course."

 

You take a seat. "It's almost too pretty to eat. Almost."

 

It tastes even better than it looks. The berries are sweet and sharp against the subtle vanilla of the chilled cream, the spongy cake a perfectly contrasting texture, tantalizing between your teeth.

 

Pretty soon, you're regretfully sweeping up the last of the cream with the final bite of cake. "If you're trying to trick me into liking evenings," you say, "you're doing a decent job."

 

He beams. His own, identical plateau sits in front of him, missing a couple strawberry slices from the spirals, but otherwise pristine. You lean forward and spear a slice from the edge.

 

Gamzee's ears prick up and he pushes his plateau towards you. "You wanna finish mine?"

 

You take a few more strawberries, then drop your fork with a groan. "I want to, but I can't. I need to do an impression of a stranglebeast that swallowed a hoofbeast, first."

 

He chuckles. "I'll save it for you."

 

You watch him stow his creation. By his own admission, he hasn't eaten this evening except for those couple slivers of fruit and a beverage cylinder of coffee.

 

"Hey," you say, as if the thought is just occurring to you, "could you teach me something?"

 

He looks over his shoulder. "Me?"

 

"No, the other guy in an apron."

 

"Uhh... Whaddyou wanna learn, brother?"

 

"You know the thing," you say, as if you didn't wake up with the words on your tongue and spend the last hour refining them, "that you do..." You hold your hand out as if you were holding a skillet, and flick your arm up. "With grubcakes and eggs and stuff. Where you flip them without touching them. That."

 

"Sure," he says, tilting his head to the side. "How come?"

 

You shrug. "It just looks cool."

 

He grins. "Ain't nothin' but a thing."

 

"Will you show me?"

 

"You got it. Whatchu wanna flip?"

 

You pretend to consider. "Something easy... How about one of those blended egg discs?"

 

"An omelette."

 

You stick your tongue out. "Yeah, Mr. Epicutioner. Let's be as obnoxiously fancy as possible."

 

"You wanna be real fancy, I got a chef's hat someplace."

 

You snort. "No, just the lesson's enough. Oh, but..." You frown. "I don't know... I don't wanna waste ingredients. I might fuck it up past edibility."

 

"I could mix it up for you."

 

"Uh, no, I wanna try," you say hurriedly. "I just don't wanna be stuck eating the result if it's lousy."

 

"I'll eat it," he says.

 

"Okay, good," you say. Somewhere there's a solid gold statue being erected in honor of your acting ability. Best Calm Ever Faked. "You promise, though?"

 

"Uh-huh. You want me to line up your ingredients?"

 

"Nope." You push him back into a chair. "I learn better hands-on. You supervise."

 

He laughs. "That's not a thing you ask me much."

 

"First time for everything." You clear some of the mess on the counter into the sink and rinse out the mixing hemisphere. "Hey, let me have your apron."

 

Gamzee takes the hand you hold out for it and pulls you between his knees. You duck your head to let him pass the neck loop over it. You stiffen when he takes your hips to turn you, wide, cool palms and long fingers gentle and firm. He folds the waist up to shorten it and ties the strings snug at the small of your back. "There you go, brother."

 

You step away and yank the hull open. Cool air, yes, good. Focus. "What'd you do with the mega-eggs?"

 

"See that beverage server, looks like it's fulla juice?"

 

You reach in and draw it out, the viscous yellow-gold mixture inside shifting lazily against the glass. "Wow. How much is this?"

 

"Mosta one," he says. "There's more in the extra hull downstairs."

 

You've had one extra hull and a deep thermal hull in the basement since you hunted your first oversized tuskbeast. Yesterday's cluckbeast required you to alchemize two more of the latter and one of the former to store it all. No one in this hive will starve for lack of _food._

 

"Alright," you say. "Now, uh... don't look for a second."

 

"Look at what?" 

 

You turn; Gamzee's eyes are already closed. "The skillet, because I'm choosing the ingredients myself."

 

"Okay. Am I not gettin' supervisory?"

 

"Not yet. Just for the flipping."

 

"Alright." He leans forward, hands on his knees.

 

"You're not looking, right?"

 

"Not a glimpse. What if I listen and get a guess on?"

 

"Go ahead."

 

He stretches his legs, arching his back and fanning his fingers, then settles, ears pricked, eyebrows raised.

 

You set the egg to one side and mull over your options. Gamzee's said before that the only rule of omelettes is no sugar. So almost everything in the hull should be fair game. You've seen him do it plenty, so you think you can manage. You grab a tomato, the garlic, a small hunk of cluckbeast, and a container of gray fungus. That should do it.

 

You set out the skillet and coat it in oil, start the heat, then chop your cluckbeast into cubes, about a quarter inch apiece.

 

"I hear you gettin' friendly with the cutting board," Gamzee says.

 

"Uh-huh." 

 

"Hmmm."

 

The cluckbeast hisses when it hits the skillet. You dice a couple cloves of garlic, toss that over the cluckbeast.

 

"Now that rhythm sounds like fungus," Gamzee guesses correctly.

 

"Maybe," you say. When the meat has begun to turn white, you stir it around, then slide the fungus in, poke it down into the oil. 

 

"Gettin' pretty aromatic, brother."

 

"It's not very pretty."

 

"Visuals ain't as much a priority."

 

"Always a good thing." You slide the cutting board into the sink. "Okay, if I've got my other ingredients, do I just pour the egg over them?"

 

"Yup, you can attack it that way. Just whisk it up fluffy before you get pourin'. You can add some milk if you want it lighter."

 

"Which is easier to flip?"

 

"Well..." He sniffs the air pensively. "If you got a lot in there, thick'll probably facilitate the most."

 

"Okay." You pour what looks like enough egg to fill the skillet into your hemisphere and hunt around for the whisk while the other ingredients crackle. "Umm..." You add a little milk, but who knows if it's enough to make it worth adding. 

 

You try to copy the motion he uses, but the wiry utensil doesn't move through your mixture the same way. How much does the wrist action matter? You should be able to brute force a mixture...

 

"Kinda twirl it," Gamzee says. You turn; he still has his eyes closed, and is miming holding the whisk, rotating his wrist.

 

"Right..." You get it to the point where it looks like it'll at least pour more easily, and spread it over what's in the skillet. It hisses where it hits metal. "Okay, do I mix it?"

 

"Just a little, right away. Then you gotta let it set, or you'll just have a scramble, not a omelette."

 

You eye your concoction. "I think it's too late. It's already solidifying."

 

"Don't pay it any pan. Let it get a little firmness all along the underside, then you can flip it."

 

"Okay... now I need you to supervise."

 

Gamzee steps up next to you, bumps your shoulder with his side. "Alright if I take a peek?"

 

"Yeah, you can't really see what's in there anymore."

 

He leans over. "Looks about ready. Okay, so I'll tell it at you like a strifin' lesson."

 

He knows you. You pop the joints in your neck and raise your fists. "Let's do it."

 

He ducks to open a cupboard and straightens with a second skillet in hand. He passes it to you and shifts the full skillet onto a cold burner.

 

"Wait, I wanna do it!"

 

"I'mma leave you to it. Just take a practice shot, first."

 

"Oh. Okay."

 

"Step one, get a grasp onto the handle like this." He holds out his hand, thumb on top. 

 

You copy him. "Then flip like this?" You flick your hand up.

 

He laughs. "Nah, you go up, you're gonna have a face fulla egg. You wanna slide it frontways, all smooth, like this." He moves his hand forward in a gentle scooping motion, only lifting at the end. "Just gets a rise on at the finish, to guide your food on back." He demonstrates again. "See?"

 

It seems counterintuitive, but he's the expert. You try to mirror his gesture. "Like this?"

 

"Close..." He slips an arm around your shoulders, sidles up close. His other hand runs along your arm to encircle your wrist. You swallow as he guides your hand through the motion. "Out and... up," he says. "Quicker on the forward, gentle on the upswing. Out... and up."

 

Concentrate, dumbass. No, not on the cool pad of his thumb over your traitorous pulse. Not on that. You make the mistake of looking up just as he smiles at you. "Got it?" he asks.

 

"Yeah. Yeah, I think." You stifle a sigh when he moves away, and put your skillet back over the heat. 

 

"Give it a little nudge with your spoon so's it ain't stuck to the bottom."

 

You do, and it takes a little wiggling to get it loose from whatever's burnt to the bottom. "Okay, here I go."

 

The omelette slides an inch up the side of the skillet then back to the center. You frown up at Gamzee, who chuckles. "Don't fear it, brother. Put a little shoulder up against it."

 

You get it to slide a little further before it slides back. Annoyed, you put your shoulder behind it, and send the omelette flying into the window. "No!"

 

Gamzee bursts out laughing. "Not that much!"

 

"I can see that!" You look in dismay between the empty skillet and the omelette dripping its way down the glass. "It's ruined!"

 

"Nah, we can save this," Gamzee says, producing a food turning utensil from somewhere and taking the skillet from you.

 

"No, gross."

 

"Window's pretty clean," he says, "and you're cookin' it up, anyhow." He peels the omelette off the glass into the skillet and returns it to you. "There." He wipes the smear from the window. "No harm." He pats your shoulder. "Really. Go on and put it back on trial."

 

You try more carefully, but can't get the food to leave the skillet. Gamzee lifts the extra pan. "Follow me."

 

You try, but hesitate, and the omelette rises halfway, then folds over on itself. "Uggh..."

 

"That's cool," Gamzee says. "That'll make it easier. One more try." He demonstrates.

 

You sigh. "Out, and... _up_." You catch your breath when the thing actually leaves the skillet, and start to move forward to catch it. Gamzee puts a hand on your elbow to still it, and the omelette falls squarely back into the skillet. You gape at him. "Holy shit, it worked!"

 

"'S all in the wrist, brother," he says, twirling his. "Give that another whirl."

 

"Okay!" This time, the weight speaks a certain language to your arm, and you feel the right moment for the flip. The irregular crescent arcs smoothly up, and you catch it square in the middle of the skillet. "I think I've got it!"

 

Gamzee stows the other skillet. "I been tellin' you for sweeps this shit is fun."

 

"If you'd told me you could fit dexterity exercises into cooking, I'd've tried it sooner."

 

"Now, you know you can't just be flippin' it the whole time," he says. "It's gotta sit some if you want it to finish."

 

"Obviously." You clear your throat and set the skillet back on the burner.

 

By the time you slide the battered omelette—in three pieces rather than one, and somewhat burnt—onto a nutrition plateau, Gamzee's waiting with knife and fork in hand. You refill your coffee and watch as he tucks in with gusto.

 

"Good choice on the ingredients, best friend."

 

"Thanks."

 

"Got kind of a flair for the culinary after all."

 

You snort. "Stop spraying your breakfast all over the table and just eat."

 

He salutes and focuses on his food. When you butter a slice of bread and slip it onto the side of his plateau, he picks it up and scoops egg onto it without seeming to notice it's a new addition. You slip him another; he devours that, too.

 

His plateau is spotless too soon for you to feel like he's eaten enough, but he claims he's full, and when you hover, you wind up in his lap with him purring into your hair. 

 

You get your arm around him and nestle. "Would you mind if I cooked for you again?"

 

His purr comes to an abrupt halt. "Mind? Hell no, brother. Any time you got a pan to." His thorax resumes vibrating against yours. You press your other hand to his chest to feel the hum.

 

"Sure? I might damage some of your equipment."

 

"Can't learn if you fear that."

 

"And it'll probably taste pretty awful."

 

"You been doin' pretty fine work in the nutritionblock of late."

 

"Okay... so what if I make something for you at every meal? _But,_ " you add quickly, "you still make _my_ food."

 

He leans to look at you. "You don't need to go to the bother, best friend. I know you got no special love for preparin' comestibles."

 

You almost say what you mean, and you're not sure if it's prudence or cowardice that stops you. "Some of it's kinda fun," you say. "Like the flipping."

 

He chuckles. "It's like juggling in the nutritionblock."

 

"Yeah, it's pretty cool. But mostly, I wanna feed you. It's nice seeing you eat something I made. I like it."

 

He hugs you close, hiding his face from view. "I... That's cool," he murmurs.

  
* * *  


Your cooking attempts are even less successful than your foray into sewing. You're showing improvement in the latter; the former is just embarrassing. Gamzee offers to teach you some of his recipes, and suggests you try some from his "food grimoire," but even though you know, by now, that taste isn't the point, you don't want your dishes to have to compare with his versions. It's partially pride, partially the fear that if you're not providing something novel for him to try, he'll lose interest, and this tactic will stop working. You skip making one meal as an experiment, and sure enough, he eats nothing that midnight. His appetite is still absent; if you don't cook, he doesn't eat. So you ad lib.

 

Creativity is not your forte in the nutritionblock. You've yet to find what is. Gamzee cheerfully eats whatever you concoct, so with your fear of him starving assuaged, you start to worry about his nutrition. At the end of four nights, you've exhausted the few healthy Alternian recipes you remember, and strained the credibility of your invention beyond its tensile strength.

 

Without a great deal of optimism, you turn to the Internet.

 

Kanaya does have some information on edible herbs and roots that looks promising, but most of the plants are unfamiliar, and, you suspect, may be particular to her region, about four hundred miles away.

 

You pull up New Alternia's one and only, garishly red and blue themed search engine.

 

SIMPLE CARBOHYDRATE STRIP RECIPES

 

Even as you hit Enter, you feel it's a bad idea. Vindication is lightning swift, in the form of a Trollian window opening dead center of your screen.

 

twinArmageddons [TA] began trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG]

TA: GZ, are you u2iing KK'2 hu2ktop?

 

"Goddammit," you groan.

 

CG: WHAT THE FUCK.

TA: huh. iit ii2 you. why are you lookiing up reciipe2?

CG: UGH.

CG: YOU KNOW WHAT I HAVEN'T MISSED?

CG: IT'S THIS.

CG: THIS IS THE THING THAT I HAVEN'T MISSED.

TA: what?

CG: THE WANTON INSERTION OF YOUR FECULENT SNOUT INTO MY BUSINESS LIKE THE UNSOUGHT ATTENTIONS OF A BLUE BONE BULGE IN A CASTEPLAY PAILVID.

TA: je2u2 chrii2t. 

TA: what crawled up your chroniically wiidened wa2te chute two attend iit2 own corp2e party?

TA: or doe2 that happen iin one of your 2iick fanta2iies, two?

TA: have ii got your pant2 all wriiggly?

TA: ...

TA: KK?

TA: you're not really...

CG: EXCUSE ME, FOR A MOMENT I WAS BLINDED BY THE BLACK TEARS OF ABJECT LOATHING THIS REMINDER OF YOUR PUTRID EXISTENCE HAS CAUSED TO WELL UP WITHIN ME. MY SCREEN WAS BLOTTED FROM VIEW BY THEIR TARRY PROFUSION.

TA: alriight, alriight, KK. much a2 ii enjoy piitchfliirtiing wiith you...

CG: WHO THE FUCK IS FLIRTING WITH YOU, YOU WART ON THE UNDERCARRIAGE OF THE GENESIS FROG?

TA: 2iigh

TA: you're riight. iit'2 all iin my miind. 2o what'2 wrong? i2 GZ 2iick?

CG: NO. WHY WOULD HE BE SICK?

TA: diid he break up wiith you? why the hell are you cookiing?

CG: HE DID NOT BREAK UP WITH ME, YOU SPINDLY MAGGOT FARM!

TA: iit would be a real 2hock, giiven what a bundle of moonliight and 2ugar crystal2 you are.

CG: WILL YOU STOP SPYING ON ME SO I CAN CONDUCT MY BUSINESS IN PEACE?!?

TA: ii AM the new alterniian iinternet, KK. ii'm alway2 here. alway2 watchiing.

CG: OH GOD. FUCK ME.

TA: now, 2ee, ii thought we were done fliirtiing.

CG: IT HURTS. I CAN ACTUALLY FEEL MY SPONGE CELLS EXPLOSIVELY CULLING EACH OTHER IN MASS ACTS OF UNPRECEDENTED MERCY TO SPARE ONE ANOTHER THE HIDEOUS PAIN OF CONVERSING WITH YOU.

TA: and yet iit can all be over 2o quiickly, iif you ju2t an2wer my que2tiion, that ii have two a22ume you're gettiing 2ome 2iick plea2ure out of thii2. ooh, am ii 2tarriing iin one of your fanta2iie2 riight now?

CG: ALRIGHT, WATCH ME. WATCH ME RISE ABOVE YOUR IDIOCY WITH MY SUPEREVOLVED, SUPERTROLL THINKPAN, YOU FESTERING NOOKSORE.

CG: I WANT TO MAKE MOTHERFUCKING CARBOHYDRATE STRIPS.

TA: you're riight. that wa2 2uperevolved. ii am 2o 2choolfed. you 2hould 2ee how contriite and awed by your maturiity ii am riight now.

TA: ii repeat: what'd you do two GZ?

CG: NOTHING! WHY WOULD I DO ANYTHING TO HIM? HE'S FINE, I'M FINE, EVERYBODY IS MOTHERFUCKING PEACHY AND I'M GOING TO MAKE CARBOHYDRATE STRIPS. I KNOW SOME IDIOT MUST HAVE WOUND UP BRINGING THE RECIPE I WANT AND IF I HAVE TO BURN YOUR FUCKING SERVERS TO THE GROUND, I'M GOING TO GET IT!

TA: for fuck'2 2ake, all riight. jeez.

twinArmageddons [TA] ceased trolling carcinoGeneticist [CG]

 

He closes the window remotely. Fucking asshole. Whatever. You review your search results.

 

You were right, the recipe did survive the planet, coming through, of all people, Eridan. Seems it was cached as part of a sea dweller website called _How the Airsuckers Live_ , in a section about land dwellers' nutritional needs given your inferior anatomy and uncultured palates. Despite the context, the ingredients look about right. You copy the relevant portion into a file.

 

TA: ohhh, that'2 ADORABLE. you liive with new alterniia'2 only gourmaniiac chef and you're gonna try two iimpre22 hiim wiith lowblood leftover 2urprii2e?

 

Gamzee bursts through your respiteblock door. "You okay, brother?" he pants. "I heard screamin'."

 

"I'm fine," you say, without turning around. "I was just talking to Sollux."

 

"Oh," he says. He ducks out again.

  
* * *  


Gamzee's been going on about berries for days, until you follow him fifteen miles along the edge of the jungle to dig up some spiny bushes. Live plants have a spotty history of decaptchaloguing in viable condition, so you bring hand wagons and pack them with damp soil, settle the bushes lovingly in their little mobile gardens before taking a hasty picnic lunch—you made the sandwiches; you were smart—and heading back.

 

You have to slow down not to leave Gamzee behind. "What's wrong?" you ask. "Are you tired?" _Because you're weak from starvation and malnutrition, for example?_

 

"It's a long trek an' a starry night, best friend," he says.

 

You set an alarm and dragged yourself out of the pile before dark, so the two of you got an early start, hoofed it all the way out, and it's only early aftermidnight. Returning burdened, at this pace... You squint at the sky.

 

"Think we'll make it before sunrise?"

 

"If we don't, I got a tent."

 

"You do?"

 

"I never showed you? Aw, brother, it's a thing of beauty."

 

"I'm sure..." You trundle along, listening to the cart wheels, ignoring the uneasiness it gives you to leave such obvious tracks through open territory. "Does it ever get to you, just how starry it is?"

 

"It _is_ a whole new sky," Gamzee says. "You hivesick for the old one?"

 

"No, fuck Alternia. I wouldn't go back."

 

He smiles and tilts his head toward you, one eye on the stars.

 

"No," you say, "just, when it's clear like this, you can see so much more than you could back there. On Alternia you could forget, sometimes, that the fleet was out there between those stars, that you'd be sent out there, sooner or later, or culled for not passing muster. With all the pollution haze, you couldn't tell stars from satellites or transports. Here..."

 

"'S like you could put a foot wrong and go sailing into 'em, some nights."

 

"Yeah," you say, something relaxing ever so slightly in your organ cage. "You, too, huh?"

 

You're walking a few feet apart to give yourselves room to maneuver the wagons. He reaches across and pokes you in the shoulder. "I'll get a grasp up on you before you go floatin' off anyplace."

 

"Fat lot of good you'd be if gravity stopped working. You don't weigh anything."

 

"How'm I supposed to be weighty with no gravity?"

 

"Oh, _now_ you're gonna get scientific on me?"

 

He pokes you again.

 

"What?"

 

He shrugs.

 

"At least if we go spinning off into the void, we'll be together."

 

Gamzee bites his lower lip and looks away. The corners of his mouth curl in spite of him.

 

"What? What is it?"

 

"Nothin'."

 

You bring your wagon to a halt and catch hold of his shirt. He stops. You curl a finger at him. "Come here a second." He drops to his knees next to you and you wince. "Gamzee, don't do that to your knees..."

 

"No damage," he says.

 

"Yes damage. If I have to be careful with myself, so do you."

 

He makes a dubious noise and avoids your eyes, sucking his lower lip into his mouth.

 

"If you wanna kiss me, just do it."

 

He looks up at you, then away again, sighing through his nose. You start to reach for his cheek, then put your hand down.

 

"I'm not gonna do it, this time. You do it."

 

The tips of his ears darken. He swallows.

 

"Look, if I'm wrong, forget about it, but just so you know, I wouldn't ever mind. I mean, I guess if we were under imminent threat of dismemberment, and I needed to see to avoid death, then maybe, but... not..." You trail off when he looks up at you. His eyes are wide and dark, gleaming in the moonlight. He looks so... serious. "I—" you start, but he touches your cheek, and you hush, caught in his gaze.

 

His fingers feather over your skin, graze your ear. Electricity moves through you. His other hand alights briefly on your shoulder, then moves into your hair, so light you can't feel his fingers, only the movement of displaced strands as a tingle in your scalp. Your breath sounds loud. He's watching you. The air is cold, bringing your skin to attention.

 

Gamzee stretches up, straightening his torso to come as close as possible. A gentle pressure at the back of your head invites you to lean down. He closes his eyes so you don't have to; you watch the tension between his brows, the nervous twitch to his lips, as you let him guide you in.

 

He sighs when your lips touch, a puff of cool air as he presses up against you. Light kisses, one after another, soft and sweet as his confections, as he runs careful fingers through your hair, along your jaw.

 

A quiet, wanting sound escapes you. You said it was up to him, but it's hard not to take control, to remain still and let him move so slowly.

 

The very tip of his tongue flickers against the seam of your lips, such a brief pinpoint of moisture that you might miss it if you weren't so completely focused on him. You part your lips and lean closer. 

 

You're not sure when you closed your eyes, only that you open them again to get your bearings, your heart beating fast. "Hold onto me," you say breathlessly, "hold onto me."

 

He winds his arms around your waist, slips one hand up to brace your shoulder. "You fixin' to float off?"

 

"Maybe. Just hold on." You wrap your arms around him, kiss him again. "It's over," you say. "Everything that happened out there. We're not going back. No one's coming for us. It's over."

 

He peers into your eyes, wrinkling his brow. "You tellin' or askin', brother?"

 

You kiss him again, hold on tight. "Where do you wanna plant the bushes?"

 

His thumb runs back and forth over your shoulder. "Along the fence. Maybe liberate a few more to make a whole halo outside the lawnring. Grow 'em up into a hedge fulla fangs and fruit."

 

"That sounds good. Our fence could use teeth."

 

"Mm-hm. What you think 'bout growin' it up high, so we don't even hafta pull the blinds? Make one wicked green cocoon all outsidea the hive with a big, strong gate up front."

 

"Like 'The Sleeping Subjugglator?'"

 

His canines peek out. "Yeah, only it's the Thorn-Ringed Threshecutioner this time. Think you'd tear into some solid slumber, then?"

 

It's not your own safety that worries you. Oh, you like your hide intact, not full of fork holes or stab wounds, but that isn't why the idea of having an impenetrable, sword-spined shield between you and the rest of the cosmos makes you happier than you know it should.

 

"Maybe," you say. "You're inside with me, right? Fix the title."

 

He narrows his eyes and hums pensively. "The... Forest of... Nah. The Grove a... Mmmm... Ah! The Napping Nestmates."

 

"Pretty good. And the gate's enchanted, too, I guess? No one gets through unless we want them inside?"

 

He pats your cheek. "Long as I'm in here, palemate, I ain't gonna let you get swept out anyplace you're not aimin' to go."

 

You press your lips hard to his forehead. "You're not going anywhere. Okay? I need you to anchor me, so I'm not letting you get lost again."

 

"Okay," he says. "You watch over me so I don't get mislaid."

 

You can't make yourself release him for quite a while, and he doesn't protest. Finally, you say, "C'mon, let's get back. I'm going to try a new recipe on you."

 

"Ooh. What is it?"

 

You look away from his eager eyes and gently disentangle yourself. "It's simple as shit. You'll love it."

 

"Hell yeah!" You dust him as he unfolds from the ground, then take your wagon handle. "Can't wait!" he says.

 

"We'd better not, or the sun'll rise before we get in... C'mon, let's pick up the pace."

 

"I got the tent," he reminds you.

 

"Yeah, but you'd rather try the new recipe, right?"

 

"Yeah!"

 

You set off again, wagon wheels rumbling through the soft dirt. You don't look up; you watch him, straining forward in an uncharacteristic rush, periodically changing arms.

 

"Got a extra sun cloak," he says, an hour later.

 

You smile, and don't say you've got yours with you. "Good to know you've got me covered."

 

"Long as I'm—" He twists his mouth off to one side. "Always."

 

  
  
You get the wagons stowed in the shade of your hive and the soil in them good and wet, promising each other to plant them tomorrow, and spill into your hive out of breath, giggling like pupae. You run up and down the stairs pulling shades, dodging beams of sunlight as if they'd incinerate you on contact.

 

When you return to the first floor and toss your cloak over the back of the couch, it squawks and squirms and Gamzee swims out of it. He opens his arms wide. "Help me lay a baptism on this couch before you get conquerin' the nutritionblock."

 

"Hmm."

 

He bounces, splaying his fingers.

 

"Fine." You plant a hand on the back of the couch and vault over, land on the cushion next to him. You tackle him and he goes down with a whoosh of breath, limbs sprawling. You nuzzle against his neck, a loud purr starting in your thorax, and he wraps his arms and legs around you, laughing.

 

"That tickles, brother! Motherfuckin' tickles!"

 

You kiss him behind his ear, under his jaw, holding him tight under the arms. He smells of sweat from your long trek, and fresh air and grass, the must of that long-stored cloak. You rise onto your elbows and push his hair back with both hands. You kiss his chin, then his forehead to distract yourself from the lips you want to kiss, the throat you want to taste. Baptise the couch you never use? Yeah, you've got an idea how you could.

 

His stomach growls like a cholerbear that's stubbed its toe after a season's hibernation.

 

"Cooking time," you announce.

 

He clings on as you try to get up. "That was no kinda baptism! Best frieeeeend!"

 

"Let go, you idiot. Feeding first, cuddles after."

 

"But I'm not hungry," he whines. You struggle—more with yourself than his arms, which aren't all that tight. You want to sink into them and kiss him until the sun is high outside. Draw your name from his lips with your fingers.

 

This time you feel his stomach burble under your palm.

 

"Nope! That's it! Let me up!"

 

He pulls back as you extract yourself, drawing his knees up in front of him.

 

"Don't pout." You can't face that look. "You want to try Silverswimmer Surprise, don't you?"

 

His ears perk, though the pout remains. "What's that?"

 

"You won't know unless you give me a chance to make it." He looks conflicted. "You're going to keep me company in the nutritionblock, right?"

 

He nods.

 

"This one's special," you tell him. "I couldn't remember the recipe, and I had to brave assholes to get it."

 

"You mean Sollux?"

 

"And Eridan, indirectly. But I really wanted to make this one for you."

 

He lifts his head. "How come?"

 

"Because you liked the fish I caught... And this was one of my favorites back home. I used to get it from this one vendor not too far from my hive. They made it with canned fish mash, so mine should be better."

 

"Everything you get to creatin' is better." Gamzee slides off the couch and follows you into the nutritionblock. "You want any backup?"

 

"Nope, you just sit, and I'll feed you." He meanders toward a chair. "Or you can hover, if you want. Whichever."

 

He rounds the table and floats just out of arm's reach as you gather ingredients from the thermal hull and cupboards and spread them on the counter. "Carbohydrate strips in this one?" he asks.

 

"Yeah. You have any tips for me?" He nods. You smile. "Are you... gonna tell me?"

 

"Oil in the water when you light the flame up under it. Keeps the strips from fraternizin' with the pot."

 

"Noted. Anything else?"

 

He shakes his head, and slides around you to stay out of your way. He settles with his back against the door of the thermal hull. You get the water oiled and salted, set to boil, and start melting butter in a skillet. "Close your eyes, I'm gonna chop onions."

 

When you look, his lips are moving, shoulders shifting to the beat of your knife on the cutting board. You scrape the onions into the skillet, and move on to the fungus. You slide that in, as well, lower the heat when the sizzle sounds too loud, and add seasoning. You shift the skillet to a third burner and get out a saucepan to start the sauce, feeling like this is the most advanced culinary experimentation ever performed by troll hands.

 

Gamzee sniffs the air, eyebrows high. "Safe to crack open my lids?"

 

"Mmmm, yep."

 

"Whoa, you jugglin' three burners, brother, whatchu planning?"

 

You shrug, stirring flour into your sauce.

 

He leans forward. "I missed some steps outta your dance."

 

You hold up a hand. "I don't want you watching too closely."

 

"Why not?"

 

"This is _my_ recipe. I don't want you to learn it."

 

His ears droop. "Why?"

 

"If you like it, you can ask me to make it. Any time you feel like it."

 

"I can?"

 

"Yeah."

 

He leans back against the hull, a tentative smile on his lips. "Want me to keep the peepstalks hooded?"

 

"No, just don't memorize anything."

 

"Okay."

 

"Wait, help, it's getting lumpy."

 

"Trickle some milk down in it," he says without hesitation. "Keep up stirring till it goes smooth. Then you can get at thickening it again."

 

"Right."

 

You sneak a look at the recipe on your nubtop, and eyeball the skillet. You give the onions and fungus a stir. Is that tender? What qualifies an onion as tender? The water comes to a boil and you dump in the carbohydrate strips.

 

You keep thickening and thinning the sauce base, convinced you're ruining it with each addition. Finally, it looks thick and plentiful enough, and you add the simmering vegetables. The pot begins to bubble again.

 

"Wanna crank the heat back to medium on the water, now," Gamzee says. He's not looking at the incinerator-top, but his ears are pricked.

 

"How long do I leave it?"

 

"You want 'em soft or chewy?"

 

"How do you like them?"

 

He scratches behind one ear. "Soft."

 

"So how long?"

 

"Give 'em a third of the clockface."

 

You set the incinerator's timer, then check your recipe again. "Oh, shit, shit... I forgot the most important part!"

 

"Need a frond?"

 

"No, um... Uh..." You turn down the heat under your sauce. He slides out of the way as you go for the hull. You fling the paper off the fish you prepped yesterday. Gamzee plucks it out of the air and deposits it in the trash. 

 

The fish are scaled and deboned already. You throw them on the cutting board and absently accept the knife Gamzee hands you. The block fills with the rhythm of your chopping. Strips, then cubes, then pyramids. Smaller and smaller pieces.

 

"You want another skillet?"

 

"Yeah, I—" He puts one in your hand. "Thanks."

 

The fish sautées up quickly, adding its aroma to the savory bouquet hovering around the incinerator. You transfer it to the sauce and dump the skillet. "Aggh, I did it wrong, the fish should've gone in sooner..."

 

A gentle hand smooths your hair. "Smells like you did it one better, best friend. Don't get yourself twisted."

 

You let your eyes close and savor the petting, just for a second. "Mm. Okay." The timer buzzes. "Oh, crap, what now?"

 

"Pass the water down through the moisture-drainin' hemisphere." One appears under your nose.

 

"Right."

 

You get the strips drained just as the sauce starts to smell like it's burning. You snatch it off the heat and combine everything. You're not sure it's supposed to be so dense; it's heavy enough that it takes some muscle to stir.

 

Gamzee hovers; you tug the back of his shirt. "Go sit."

 

He gives you a look like a pupa waiting at the candy vendor counter with his first allowance in hand. You give him a gentle push.

 

The nutrition hemispheres are heavy enough when you bring them to the table that you taste the concoction first. It tastes just fine... Not as salty as you remember, but good. "I guess it's safe," you say, passing him a fork. "There is a slight chance it'll turn to stone in your stomach, though."

 

"Ain't adversarial to a risk, best friend."

 

You flop down next to him, the pot in easy reach. And you watch. The bob of his throat as he swallows. His tongue darting out to clean his upper lip after every second mouthful. His graceful fingers holding the fork, cupping the hemispheres. He finishes two and starts on a third before he notices your scrutiny.

 

"Wh-what? Lookin' on me like I put my face on backwise."

 

You brush a lock of hair behind his ear. "Your face is beautiful, don't worry about it."

 

His mouth twitches, like he isn't sure whether to smile or frown or speak or remain silent.

 

You keep stroking his hair back. "Don't mind me. Just eat."

 

He still looks like he wants to say something, but in the end, he seems to decide he prefers food to conversation. You can't help the petting, but you try to make sure you don't distract him from his meal. He leans into your hand, fork clicking against the nutrition hemisphere.

 

  
  
That morning he falls asleep in your arms, a gangly bundle of contentment. Tired though you are, accomplished as you feel at having fed him, sleep is slow in coming. You want to kiss him awake so badly. The impulse to run your fingers up under his shirt, to dip below his waistband, beats under your skin, trying to get out. You press your lips to his forehead and breathe the scent of his hair deep. The sun's pretty far west before your eyes will stay closed.

  
* * *  


The next couple nights, you're not entirely ashamed of what you feed him. Dave and John both pester you separately, having _totally not heard from Sollux,_ and offer you their own amateur recipes. John's is basically grubloaf, which Gamzee can already make better than anyone, so you don't even save it.

 

You're prepared to mock Dave mercilessly for his suggestion—beefgrubburgers? Really?—when he insists that it's all about the garnish, and that his Bro knows the secret to the most mouthwatering burger ever to be grilled. He is, you are forced to admit, correct. It takes you three tries, but when you successfully caramelize onions, the burgers you make come the closest you can imagine to rivaling Gamzee's cooking. 

 

_He_ gushes about it until you have to kiss him to shut him up. You refuse to reveal the recipe. You're certainly never going to tell him where it came from. You do tell Dave they were pretty good. You're not a _complete_ asshole.

  
* * *  


Piece by slow and painstaking piece, you build up Gamzee's new wardrobe. You get his sign onto his shirts and he doesn't say anything. That doesn't satisfy you.

 

You kneel on the floor of your respiteblock, surrounded by cloth and botched efforts. _You_ don't wear _red_ , you remind yourself. There wasn't a lot of color-wearing on Alternia. Flaunting your blood color outside of your sign seems like such an elitist thing to do that it's strange for you to _want_ Gamzee to. Only...

 

You roll a yard off the bolt of purple. Only... He isn't elitist, and this isn't Alternia.

 

Hours later, your door eases open. "You hungry, brother?"

 

You drop scissors and needle and flex your cramping fingers. "Shit, yeah... I'm starved. Lost track of time..."

 

The scent of fresh pastry wafts in ahead of him and your stomach contracts. He sits down next to you with a tray and hands you a warm muffin.

 

"Fuck," you groan, "that smells amazing."

 

"Got the fruit inside 'em what we're gonna have on those bushes."

 

You snort crumbs and fumble to catch them. "'F you're tryin'a convince me t'help y'get more bushes—" You swallow. "—for your hedge, I'm sold. I promise."

 

He hands you a plateau to spill the rest of your crumbs on. You think he's staring at your hands, but when you move them his gaze stays level. You're still wearing the body of the garment whose sleeves you're currently sewing.

 

You wolf down the rest of your muffin, pull off a piece of another, and hold it out. "Open up." 

 

He draws back, lips tight.

 

"Let me feed it to you," you say. You look up into his eyes. If only you could manage that wet barkbeast look he does so well—it would probably be horrifying on your face, though. You just try not to look or sound angry, which is challenge enough, even though you aren't.

 

"Not hungry," he says.

 

"I know. I just want company." You pull the tray alongside you and set your work and needles carefully out of the way. You pat your thigh. "Once I fortify myself with a few of these, I'm going to cook something."

 

"What?" he asks.

 

"You'll see." You pat your thigh again.

 

You see him weighing pros and cons, but he finally crawls around to the side of you and stretches out, laying his head across your lap. You lean over to kiss him and he stretches his neck after you when you lift your head, so you kiss him again. His fingers brush your cheek, then fall away. You catch his hand and put it back against your face. Your hand falls to his chest, resting over the subtle softness of one pectoral. Your thumb strokes unconsciously, drawn to that give. He hums quietly against your lips, rising into your touch.

 

You pull back a little. His eyes open, wide and bright, and you want to crumble. You swallow, shift your hand to his shoulder as subtly as you can. "What've you been doing tonight?" you ask.

 

He blinks slowly, tugs a lock of your hair into place, then rests his hand on his stomach. "Soaked up some moonrays to cultivate the green and growing, then spun up the tables and set some beats to flowin'."

 

"Same song?" He nods. "How's it coming?"

 

"Vocals won't bend the way I want 'em to. Lyrics still got something lackin' I can't pin to the wall."

 

"Your pan needs fuel," you say, and offer the piece of muffin again. "One for you, one for me, okay?"

 

He groans, but lets you feed it to him. "Now you," he mutters.

 

You pet him between bites to keep him distracted, give him little kisses on his forehead, his nose, till he smiles.

 

"Why don't you run it by me?"

 

"My jam?" He licks a crumb off his lip.

 

"Yeah. Maybe an extra set of ears will help." He frowns up at you. "What?" you ask. "I know I don't have any rhythm, but..."

 

"Brother, you got rhythm hidin' all through your bones. Glimpse it when you strife. You just clamp down at it too strict." He grins. "You afraid you might bust out dancin' if you don't keep a tight lock over your limbs?"

 

"If I am, it's for the greater good of the planet," you say. "So let me hear it."

 

You slip him another piece and he chews, brow wrinkled. "Not yet. It's gotta be perfect."

 

"If you insist." Even if his music isn't your style, you like hearing it more than you'll admit. Gamzee's New Alternian phase isn't ruled by his admiration of the old slam poets, or the subjugglator themes he used to stick to. It's just his, in a way he never managed before. "I..." He looks at you expectantly. "No, never mind. Here, last bite."

 

You nuzzle him while he finishes. He wiggles his shoulders and resettles. "Hey, best friend...?" He tugs at the purple fabric covering your black tee-shirt. It's going to be a hoodie if you can hack the pattern. "This for me?" his brow is all wrinkled, corners of his mouth turned down.

 

"No."

 

He blinks.

 

"You told me you didn't want bright clothes. I hope you don't mind, because this one's definitely too small for you."

 

"Who's gonna be wearin' it, then?"

 

"Me. It's getting cold and some of my sweaters are getting threadbare. And tight, frankly. You feed me too well."

 

"You keep bustin' out muscle all over the place," he says, but the furrow down his forehead deepens. "I..."

 

"What is it?" you ask, as gently as you can.

 

"I don't... know as I feel right with you wearin' that shade..."

 

"I alchemized a whole bolt, so if neither of us do, it'll go to waste."

 

He frowns at your stomach, plucking at the fabric.

 

"If you really don't like it, I won't wear it, either."

 

He exhales through his nose, lips tight. Eventually, he takes a deep breath. "I don't want you lookin' colonized." He winces and sits up. "Shit, sorry. Sorry, that ain't... I'm not sayin' I'm even capable of layin' a brand on you, I..." He rakes his hands through his hair. "Motherfuck."

 

"Shoosh." You pat his knee. "I'm not going to flip out at you. Say what you're trying to say."

 

He nods and frowns hard at the floor, gathering his thoughts. "You fought a fierce battle not to fall prey to the spectrum back home, brother. You wear my color... maybe it'll look like you lost. When I know what blood you shed to march under your gray flag, that doesn't sit right by me."

 

"You're not wrong," you say slowly. "I'd never have worn this on Alternia. But it's different, here." You touch his painted cheek. "I know it's lonely to think you're the only purpleblood left, but..." You hold out the hem of the garment. "This is yours, now, this color. Any purpleblooded trolls that hatch from now on will look to you to know what it means. You get to decide, Gamzee. No one else can define it. No one else can tell them."

 

He takes this in with wide, serious eyes. "That's heavy," he says finally.

 

"It's heavy," you agree.

 

He mulls. "If it's my decision, I wanna lay down somethin' worth the listening. Wanna choose well what it grows up to mean." His fingers knead the fabric over his knees. "You think I can do it?"

 

"I wouldn't wear it if I didn't."

 

He's quiet, looking at you in your unfinished jacket, threads loose everywhere. "Will you stitch me a gray one?" he asks.

  
* * *  


You often find him in the noiseblock. He's always wearing headphones, never does more than hum a couple bars, so faintly you're left straining after the sound, brain unable to hold the melody. You don't want to stop him, at least not until he needs to eat, so you don't interrupt. You linger in the hall remembering all the times you told him to shut up when he rapped, complained about volume.

 

You spar with the waves.

  
* * *  


Culinary creativity proves disastrous, in your opinion, but Gamzee is beyond excited over the potato and cluckbeast concoction you dub Underground Flapbeast. He watches anxiously as you stow the tray of leftovers in the hull.

 

"Don't let it be poppin' out."

 

"I've got it behind the milk, it's safe." You flinch as you reach back, and pull your arm out, rubbing your shoulder.

 

Gamzee pulls you around to face him. "What you done on yourself, palemate?"

 

"I think I tweaked something, earlier."

 

"Told you you been slingin' sickle to an excess."

 

You push him away. "It's fine."

 

But by the time you pile up for the morning, your shoulder is throbbing, and you writhe all through the cushions trying to find a position that won't aggravate it. The pile gets spread out into more of a nest, and Gamzee winds up on his side, with your torso lopsidedly draped over his waist.

 

"You... you up and comfy like that?"

 

You shift a little. You feel like something ought to be twisted, but it appears you've lucked into just the right pillow configuration keeping your hips and legs supported. The pain in your shoulder subsides to a dull ache. "Against all odds," you say, "I am. Am I crushing you?"

 

"Ain't even makin' a dent, brother."

 

"I don't want you to wake up with your neck bent out of shape."

 

"You're like an electrified snuggleplane, best friend. Rather have you than the woven kind." He grabs the snuggleplane that had been shunted aside in your squirming and tosses it over you. You tuck the corners down around him, but with you over his side, it leaves his shoulder bare. You sneak in that direction, but the tendon in your shoulder twangs, so you stop where you are.

 

"Are you cold?"

 

"Got your heat radiatin' all up me. I'm gooood."

 

You're comfortable enough, but it's a weird position, and you find yourself just floating there, awake, as Gamzee's breathing evens out. Pretty much everything in this hive works, is too new to have developed the leaks and structural idiosyncrasies that lend themselves to ghost stories. When you and your quadrantmate stop talking, a whole new breed of silence falls. Right now, you can't hear the ocean, or any wind. You feel his heartbeat, but you can't hear it.

 

"Gamzee?" you whisper.

 

"Mmmmmhm?"

 

"I can't sleep."

 

"Want me to simmer you up somethin' to get your lids heavy?"

 

"No..." You resettle your chin on him. "Could you—?"

 

"What?"

 

"No, it's fine."

 

"If there's some way I can be easin' your passage on into the deep and dreamless, lay that shit out, best friend."

 

"When it's quiet, I think. When I think, I can't sleep. Can you make some noise?"

 

"You know me," he says. "What kinda commotion you cravin'?"

 

"I dunno..." You tug absently at his collar. "Something familiar and not too exciting, I guess."

 

He hums thoughtfully. "You mean like a story?"

 

"Yeah, that'd work. Or a song."

 

He considers again. The rumble in his chest is a bit like purring and you smile.

 

"My singin' strings ain't feelin' too fit..."

 

You stroke his front. "That's okay. Don't worry about it."

 

"Naw, but, I could spin you a yarn. Get it a little tangled, probably. Memory's none too robust, but..."

 

"Do you know Sixteen Stone?"

 

"Uhhhh..." He tilts his head to look up at you. "Kinda gets bashin' on a bell or two..."

 

"What about... Jaheen Hanree? No, maybe that's more my district than yours..."

 

He jostles a little, eyes shining up at you in the dim block. "Nooo, I know that one! Jaheen Hanree was the baddest ninja ever to paint his face up mirthful and wield a blade."

 

"Uhh," you say. "I think we got our yarn tangled. I mean the first lowblood to be attached to the Coast Garrotters."

 

"Sword be the death of me?" Gamzee asks.

 

You raise your eyebrows. "I guess it is the same guy. He wasn't one of the faithful as I heard it."

 

"Oh, he was mirthful as a motherfucker," Gamzee says. "Word was, he told such a punchline, he sometimes didn't hafta lift a frond on the front lines. Trolls just be rollin' around laughin'."

 

"Okay, this oughta be good. Tell me that one."

 

"All _right!_ " He clears his throat. "Um, let's see... uh..."

 

You hear the tune in your head. It was always a song; you've never heard it told out of rhyme. Before you realize it, you're humming the first couple bars.

 

"Ah," says Gamzee. "When Jaheen Hanree was a little pupa... He climbed up in his lusus' tree..." He says the words slowly, brow wrinkling. "Well... he got this little sword and got to swingin' it..."

 

You open your mouth to say that isn't how it goes. He's squinting at the ceiling, face screwed up in concentration. You relax against him, watching.

 

"Well, he was real badass with the sword, see," Gamzee says, like he's pulling the words from deep storage, "and all his youthful days he got dreamin' how he was gonna rise up to the Garrotters..."

 

You keep wanting to correct him. It's hard to hear the lines you know so well chopped up and summarized without jumping in, but somehow, you manage. He started with the same two lines you're familiar with, so it must be his memory failing him. Out of verse it doesn't sound right, but he tells you about Jaheen Hanree's pupahood, his fights with encroaching sea dwellers, the infighting with local highbloods, and how his skillful swordplay and heroism eventually won them over. Some parts you want to say are false about his entry into the mirthful herd, but these nights it doesn't seem so implausible. You let him tell it his way, right up to Jaheen's trek to the Garrotters HQ.

 

"He knocked down the door without even meaning it, and the troops all rose up on their nubs, like who's this fronty motherfucker, and Hanree told them he wanted in on the action. They thought that was a joke, and were fixin' to put steel to him, when the captain said... Uh... Damn," Gamzee mutters. "How's that shit flow?" His fingers drum on a pillow. "The captain said..." One tap to each syllable.

 

_The Captain said, Jaheen Hanree..._ When you run the tune through your head, it matches up with the beat of his fingers on the cushion. You more chant than sing, "The Captain said, Jaheen Hanree, lowblood, what can you do?"

 

Gamzee takes a breath and his lips part. He closes them again and keeps tapping.

 

You try to get the actual notes this time: "I can defend and attack, and I can guard your back..."

 

"And I can cleave a big troll in two," Gamzee joins in in an undertone. "Mess-iahs, I can cleave a big troll in two."

 

The Messiahs are a new addition to you, but you roll with it, straight into the next verse.

 

"Well the sea dwellers were gettin' restless,  
"Swarmin' right up the beach,  
"Said the Captain, Hanree, you listen to me,  
"Squad needs a highblood's muscle and reach,  
"So march homeward,  
"I need a highblood's muscle and reach."

 

It's not a whisper anymore—Gamzee's voice is quiet, but the tones are true and resonant. They thrum under your fingers.

 

"Jaheen Hanree said to the Captain,  
"Well, a lowblood ain't less than a troll,  
"And before I let a highblood shame my caste,  
"I'll give up my very own soul,  
"Mess-iahs,  
"I'll give up my very own soul."

 

You can't hold a tune, but you can't hear yourself separately, anymore. The deep, rich swell of Gamzee's voice sweeps you along, every note so perfect you can feel it click somewhere in your brain. You're only there for added volume, so you fill your lungs and provide. You sing about the rustblood fighter and his mighty battle on the beach, his fifteen-pound sword, and his formidable goldblood matesprit, Polyan. Gamzee closes his eyes and belts it. The sound swells and splashes against the walls, rolls back to you. 

 

The song ends with Jaheen Hanree buried behind the Imperial Palace—which you have on good authority wasn't true, but never bothered you—and your voices lift the final lines to the ceiling:

 

"There lies a steel-slingin' troll,  
"Mess-iahs!  
"There lies a steel-slingin' troll."

 

You're anything but sleepy, pulse up, ears buzzing. You feel like running out onto the beach and picking a fight with that shark creature. Gamzee looks up at you, all white fangs and glittering eyes. "You sing motherfuckin' _blissful_ , best friend! How come you and me never shared a tune before?"

 

"Hey, I just followed you. I'm completely tone deaf on my own."

 

He blinks and touches his fingertips to his throat. Your stomach tightens. Before the wrinkle can deepen down his forehead, you say, "We should sing together more often. If you can stand my caterwauling."

 

"Y...yeah," he says slowly, fingers still poised over his squawkbox. "I'd love to decimate some duets with you. I..." He trails off, looking down.

 

"But right now, will you sing me something else? I won't fall asleep if I'm singing, too."

 

"Um..."

 

You don't want to push too hard, but just a little. "Just until I fall asleep?"

 

"O...kay," he says. "You like the sound a Pain Mountain?"

 

You've never heard of it. "Yeah, that's perfect." You tuck your chin into the slight softness of his waist. "Please."

 

For all he says his memory is drilled full of sopor holes, he knows a lot of music you've never heard, and it sounds note perfect. This one is a quiet ballad about a squad of Cavalreapers lost in the mountains in the Dark Season. The words are sad, but the way his voice rolls through the notes, rising and falling like the mountains themselves, makes you shiver and hold tighter to him, hoping the song never ends.

 

It takes you nearly two hours to fall asleep, but you don't care, because he only stops singing to whisper, "You dreamin' yet, best friend?" and hear you mumble, "Not yet."  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided they had Troll [John Henry](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Henry_\(folklore\)) on Alternia, so if you want music for your Troll [Ballad of John Henry](http://reblog-corral.tumblr.com/post/99743066536/i-have-a-fic-related-reason-for-posting-this-but), there you are. :o)


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